Waiting for the 26 Valencia at the end of the line

We each settled into one of seats of the foul-designed bench taking shelter from the light rain: a middle aged woman who was not fond of cigarettes, an older woman who was letting out trails of marlboro smoke and lucky me in the middle.

The non-smoker spoke to no one in particular, voicing her disdain for cigarettes; the danger for second hand smoke, how lungs grew black with chemicals, the names of diseases linked to smoking. She let out this growling public service announcement without ever making eye contact with the smoker two seats away from her. The smoker lit another cigarette, let out a wail of laughter and clucked her tongue, muttering "be quiet!" while she smoothed her hair and checked her transfer.

Every time the non-smoker let out an obviously feigned cough, the smoker coughed out a high pitched guffaw and continued her chain smoking, muttering about "fucking shut up, be quiet, be quiet". As the bus arrived the non-smoker looked at me for some assurance but I shrugged and smiled at the smoker who had madly rushed before us and grabbed a seat near the window and giggled to herself. Instead of letting out out clouds of smoke, she was now laughing. Loud. And disturbingly.

As passengers boarded she would emit this howl when they passed her, causing flinches and hushed disapproval. When her howls died into muffled laughter every minute or so, the smoker rifled through her bag and pulled out a paper back library book. Slowly, she started reading out certain words, working her way to sentences. The remainder of the 26 bus ride was silent save the smoker reciting passages from "The Chronicles of Riddick" by Alan Dean Foster in an uneven and dramatic tone, her voice rising with tension and stretching every vowel to its limit. "But he could not simply embrace that of which he knew so much. Haven striven to rise to the exalted position of lord marshal, it did not behoove him to surrender it voluntarily."