I wear my sunglasses

They shield me from direct eye contact, and let me look to my heart's content. I can withdraw that minute amount that allows active observation instead of just passively riding the bus. I made notes today, even, shaky pencil scrawls in a tattered little red notebook.

There's a blonde, reading her paper on the cement wall, defensive of

The bearded man, in a navy sport coat and turquoise ball cap, rolling his own cigarettes. He goes through two, waiting, being ignored by

A young guy in a ponytail, making plans for the night with his girlfriend, cellphone pressed to one ear, pacing by

A pair of young Asian women, one just waiting with her friend, leaving as the friend heads up the Hill on the 7.

I chew on the brittle edges of my nails and watch the buses and people parade by.

Two men follow me onto my bus, the younger has sunglasses, a black backpack and a New Zealand cap. I wonder if he has an accent, or if he just visited. The older one wears plain glasses, but almost exactly the same black backpack. He uses a disposable camera to take a picture of the old Mexican two seats behind him. He likes the ball cap: No Cervezia No Trabajo. I don't know what it means, but I can look it up later.

Two stops later, a man with hair past his ass gets on, and the driver asks him if his hair is heavy. He mumbles a response, trusting to his black tshirt, sunglasses and attitude to stifle further comments.

The bus driver turns her conversation to the prune-faced woman in the first seat, and talks with her about hair color for three stops.

NZ cap gets off.

Scribbling half-legible notes, I miss my stop. No big deal.

Lake Union glitters in the sun, a few sailboats visible through the houses and trees. Beyond the Aurora Bridge, I can see faint clouds and the barest hints of dark mountains.

I trade growls with a moppy dog smaller than my cat. The same cat tries to trip me as I enter the door, standard fare.

Downstairs, the computer's already on, but I'm out of peanut butter m&ms. Darn.