mascara // m.c.

1 // chicken.

michael leaned his head against the bus window, his breath steaming it up. it was another tiring monday morning. the same people were arriving on the bus.

the elderly woman with the brown loafers, the stern-looking skinhead who didn't look anyone in the eye, and the teenage girl with her headphones blasting loud, angsty music everyone could hear.

michael waited. and then there she was.

her dyed red hair glinted in the sunlight, like stained glass in a church window. he liked the way it always did that. michael didn't like change. he wanted everything to stay the same, with the exception of a few things.

she was always wearing a faded band shirt (it was the ramones today), black skinny jeans, and using her glossy hair to cover up yet another badly-concealed bruise. michael already knew this, because it was always the same. it never changed.

no one else saw this tiny detail, or if they did, they didn't care. but michael cared. he cared much more than anyone would've thought he would, despite his lack of involvement.

the only thing michael ever changed was his hair. he liked this change, because, it was cool, it was bright, it was unique. it didn't cause a massive problem, like most changes did. he liked to stand out from the crowd, like a reject.

but now, with the way the girl with the red hair was looking at him, looking at his bright (currently white) hair, made him blush.

he shifted in his seat once again. his seat was opposite the girl's as she glided her mascara on, but he wanted to sit right next to her. no matter how crowded the bus was, no one would sit next to her.

he wished he could've mustered up the courage to speak to her, but the way things were going, it wasn't going to happen.

it was always the same. he'd talk himself into it, imagine all the scenarios in his head(and blush at some), attempt to get up from his seat to talk to her, then chicken out and sit back down.

it always ended the same way too. a few stops later, the girl with the red hair would slide her mascara back into her tote bag, get up from her seat, and when the bus slowed to a screeching stop, she'd step off and hoist her bag up onto her shoulder.

and then she'd be off. walking, and walking, until she disappeared down parahmore road, and michael stayed for the remainder of the ride.

he wished he wasn't such a stupid chicken. and on the way home, he'd chastise himself for sitting back down. chicken, chicken, chicken. michael the chicken.