Coffee and Sugar by C. Sean McGee

Author:C. Sean McGee
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: CSM Publishing
Published: 2013-03-21T03:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWELVE

The roads downtown were coarse and bumpy and the buses in the city traded practicality for comfort and safety. The driver sped along the road, weaving in and out of traffic like a mosquito would, the clapping hands of a desperate camper, himself not imagining in his mind a lick of difference between sitting behind the wheel of a bus and sitting behind the wheel of a beetle, driving the former like the latter, his right foot planted firmly on the accelerator as he swung the wheel left and right clipping mirrors and bumpers and waving his left arm out of the window as if he were reaching for god’s hand to pull him out of the coming wreckage.

The bus was packed as it always was with the morning flood of weary and worn workers and beggars and priests and thieves; sounding out in their heavy moans a chorus of fatigue of which they swapped for choking black fumes that hanged in the thick moist humid air like a poorly lit decoration.

Some coughed and some blinked of their eyes, others sneezed into their hands and then rested their hands on the backs of others when the bus would hit a bump or a puddle or a pedestrian. And their sticky, dirty hands clinged to sweaty backs and to greasy hand rails that were so crowded that sticky, dirty hands lay on top of other sticky, dirty hands like an orgy of worms as thick, bulbous hairy fingers rolled over and in and out of one another, wrapping tight like a retracting coil whenever the bus shuddered or a pretty girl bid her brace before many fat, disgusting men.

Joao stood wedged between a silver bar which pushed against his spine and a large gingerly woman whose giant low hanging breasts seemed to enclose themselves around the curves of his face so that the sweat that stained through her shirt and dripped from her chin stung his eyes. The woman’s stained t-shirt was more like a wash cloth now as with every jump and jolter or the bus, her enormous breasts shook up and down and dragged Joao’s face along her chest where her t-shirt streaked across his eyes and his chin like a filthy rag on a toilet floor.

He tried to hold his breath but it was no use. Her sweat ran down his chin and onto his neck where it trickled down his body and tickled his skin. When he tried to lift his hand to scratch his belly and dry the woman’s sweat by patting his shirt against it, the woman slapped him over his head, short and sharp to stop his wandering hand from coming close to her curvaceous body.

“Touch me and I’ll crush you” she said, slapping him once on the head.

“Sorry mam. I’m not trying to touch you” said Joao.

“I’m not good enough for you to touch? That’s what you’re saying? I’m just a fat bitch, huh?” yelled The Obese Woman.

“No mam,” said Joao choking

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