The bus is late. When I look down the street for it, the sun burns into my eyes so I see red and yellow spots. A young woman leans against the bus stop shelter braces. She chews gum in her open mouth, making loud snapping sounds between slurps and sucks. The bus rumbles into view and heaves to a stop. I step forward and the woman cuts in front of me to get on first. Sorry, she says, turning briefly toward me. She blows a pink bubble that bursts and sprays back on her lips. The cloying smell of gum scents the air. I am grateful that she decides to sit toward the back of the bus. I take a vacant bench seat. When I sit down, I smell the solvent of a freshly used felt pen. Still wet graffiti marks the back of the seat in front of me. The bus doors start to close. A man pushes through and laboriously enters the bus. The bus starts before he is seated. His large body sways unsteadily until he sits beside me. As the bus makes its turn, his three hundred pounds slide against me, pressing me against the metal panel. He smells of urine and sweat. I tug at the window latch until it reluctantly grinds open. A mistake. Exhaust fumes. A throbbing begins behind my burning eyes. Pound, pound, pound. Someone pulls the yellow cord for the next stop. Ding, ding, ding. Parada Stop Requested flashes red above our heads. The bus pulls to an inelegant stop, shoving us forward. The man pulls out of the seat and bounces the bus as he trundles to the exit. Late again, he said to the driver, who shrugs. Sorry, the driver says. It happens. A woman jangles onto the bus. She fumbles for change in her purse with because she holds a cup of coffee with the other. She sits beside me. Her writsts are laden with bracelets; her fingers are stiff with rings. Her thick floral scent smothers the air, mixing unhappily with the smell of the coffee. I begin to sneeze. Once. Twice. Three times. Ding, ding, ding. Parada Stop Requested. The bus charges past the blue and white sign. Driver stop! Thats my stop! Sorry. The driver yanks the bus to the curb. The woman bumps against me. Sorry, she says. Its okay. The bus lumbers forward. Could you pull the cord for me? the woman asks. I do. She rises before the bus halts completely. She sways and her cup tilts and coffee falls onto me. The liquid soaks through my blouse sleeve. I feel its heat and moisture on my skin. Sorry, she says. No problem, I lie as I dig in my purse for a tissue. A man sits down in the seat beside me. He opens his briefcase and offers me a wrinkled but clean napkin. Would this help?" Thank you. Yes, it would. I dab at the spill on my sleeve. There will be a stain. At least its the end of the day. I smell the mans light, woodsy cologne. He sits solidly in the seat with no part of him touching any part of me. He pulls headphones out of his briefcase and puts them on. I hear the slight overflow of music. La Boheme, he says and smiles as he closes his eyes. I turn back to the window. The gasoline fumes have dissipated. My head is pounding less now. We are passing a garden full of brightly blooming geraniums. Orange, red, pink the colors shimmer in the afternoon light. Somewhere honeyed alyssum must be blooming too. I dont see them but I can smell them. First and Laurel, announces the driver. I pull the cord. Excuse me, I say to the man. He is deep into his music. I touch his arm. Excuse me. He opens his eyes. Sorry. He stands up and lets me slip out of the seat. The bus jars to a stop and I push back against him. Im sorry, I say. He smiles and returns to his seat and his music. I step out into the hot hair. My hair falls across my face and I smell his cologne that has somehow attached itself to me and lingers as a faint memory of a stranger. I take a breath. A bicyclist skids in front of me on the sidewalk. We don't collide but his wheels cause small pebbles to hit against my legs. Sorry, he calls back. Were all sorry.