The bus stops beyond the row of food stallstheir lights are still onĐức offers to carry the bagI give him the short handlethe long one catches on a buttonhe has to walk slowly beside me
I have seat number seventeenthe conductor points insideI step over outstretched legsask for a little room pleasethe ticket stub torn from its counterfoillies between my son's two fingers
Đức is still below the bus doorreminding me when Auntie will meet meI say her house number has changedhe takes his phone out to checkthe driver asks if anyone else is getting offĐức steps back through a puddle
I left the red blouse in the wardrobeI wear the brown one on the busthis sleeve is a little shortI pull it down over my wristthe suitcase is stowed underneathI hold the cloth bag on my lap
The woman beside me holds a bunch of bananasshe shifts over to give me roomI put the gift bag down belowtake the needle box from the side pocketthe cuff button hangs by one threadI hold it between two fingers
the bus pulls out over a potholemy shoulder bumps against hersshe reminds me about the bag in frontI pull it close to my feet
Huệ calls for the first timesays I've put the firm pillow readyI say get the soft oneshe says you're changing your mind againthe woman beside me holds the spoolI move the phone to my other hand
I feed the thread's end through the needlethe bus jolts, the thread splitsI twist it between two fingersthe spool rests on her lapthe needle is halfway through the buttonthe thread's end sticks to my lips
