Short Story contest winner
“In Transit” (excerpt)
The painter swigs. The bus sways. The beer spills, intensifying his smell. "Holy Jesus. Women can't drive buses. You want I should get behind the wheel?" He winks at Iris and jerks his head toward the driver. "I got experience."
Iris stares back at the seated painter and dirties her look, but the man's unfazed by her evilest eye. She slips her wrist through a handhold, composes her face, and works the crowd with her lipsticked smile.
Everyone else looks like she guesses she must look, minus the magenta grin. Empty faces. Full feet. It's soulless work anymore, trying to retail a smile.