The boys I see

The white lines on the road are whizzing past. I keep rhythm with my feet. Tap tap tap, as each line passes. I stare out the window, as I always do, but the lines are getting shorter and we're moving faster. I start to miss some of the lines.

Then we stop.

I stop tapping. My feet are parallel to long white line on the road. Let them refill at this stripe, in case I miss more along the way. Someone is walking towards the seat. He pauses for a second, then sits down beside me. I don't take my eyes off the road.

We start moving again. Tap tap, goes my head. The person beside me wears a brown pant. I picture the rest of the bus without even looking. There's a group of boys who just entered. They're very noisy, and they cuss a lot. They don't seem to mind. I don't really mind either, 'cos my mind's fixed on other things. Like picturing the surroundings. Or translating the song in my head to French. I look around with my ears, and I see voices and the music of someone's blaring MP3 player. Not that I mind. I like music. And I'm still tapping.

The person beside me takes out a stack of papers. He looks like he could be from a University, judging by the rustle of papers.

I need my eyes now. They unstick themselves from the road and from my past memories, and i glance at his papers. But my feet keep tapping.

I like his handwriting very much. He has notes, written out on an unruled sheet of paper. He writes very neatly, in black, and there are yellow highlights. My eyes are fixed on his paper. I can't read the words, but I can read the writing. He's holding a pen now, and adds on to that sheet of paper. He writes very smoothly, like it's his natural instinct. His hand moves without shaking, and words appear. His skin is auburn, like he's been in the sun a lot.

He props his leg up against the seat in front. I go back to my window, 'cos he's stopped writing. I like it when the bus goes over a bump. I like to feel my stomach jump. I decide to inspect the bus more. The group of boys haven't stopped talking. One of them is talking about how he told his father he's going to his mother's office, when in fact the whole group is going to someplace else. They're innocent still, these boys, no matter how much they cuss. They get off when the MRT line comes into view.

I wish the person beside me would start writing again. He soon gets off, though. I look at his back view. It says SRJC SOCCER on his jersey.

That evening, I'm walking towards Bishan Interchange with the others. There's a group of older boys sitting at the fast-food outlet. "Bye," they call. I wonder who they are, so I look up. They must be in their early twenties. No one I know. "Bye" they say again, so we ignore them and walk away, towards the Interchange, away from their invitations of ice-cream.

As I take the bus home, I wonder why they said goodbye. And I continue tapping my feet. I won't lose the rhythm, no matter how much I think about the different boys I see.