Morning on the 74 to Richmond Bart

When she arrives it's twenty minutes late and I know it's her turning around that corner because of how the bus speeds down the street and then halts like it wants to screech but can't. I board, pay my fare, check out her godawful make up of the day and find a seat as the bus goes tearing through the neighborhood.

I never understand how she can drive so fast yet be so consistently late. I imagine her up the hill at the turn-around during break, applying blush cream over and over again, blue shadow caked onto her eyelids and a gloss to finish. I wonder how long it takes her to perfect her array of colors and if this is why she is late. For beauty's sake. I guess I can let it slide.