The Chicken

(c) 2019 Brian Berlin

With a chicken under her arm
She boarded the bus to Transfer Station 13

The red hen silently watched the bus fill with more of the large creatures

The woman watched too
Wearing a mask of brave indifference that concealed her inner terror of situations like this where a man may decide to sit beside her

If that ever happened…

Well she didn’t know and didn’t want to even think about the possibility
The hen sensed her body tense as the bus had nearly filled to capacity

The only empty seat on the bus was the one beside her
“Go already,” she hissed to no one in particular.

But the bus did not go.
It would not leave for sixty more seconds

A man, a big man, came into view walking toward them.

At his pace, he would certainly not make this bus.

Each second felt like a torturous drop of water drilling into her forehead

She could hardly take it.

The hen blinked.

It was exactly fifteen past the hour.
“Go already,” she hissed again.
But the driver did not go.

He waited for the man who boarded and made his way to where she sat.

She tried to wish and pray him away.

He stood there.

She swung her legs outward granting him access to the inside seat

He sat down and looked at the woman for a moment
And then looked at the hen.

“Nice chicken,” he said.

The air brakes hissed and the bus lurched forward,
Full and finally on its way to Transfer Station 13.

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