Standing at a bus stop on Sunday morning

I'm seventeen. I'm standing at a bus stop, in the city centre. It's Sunday morning, and I'm in my Saturday night clothes.

It's still early, not many people around, and those that are, are dressed in their sunday best, and mainly on their way to church, some holding well dressed children by the hand. It's early in the day, and early summer too, the day bright and brisk, the sun lighting up the dour Victorian square with its new steps and pedestrianised plaza. The progress of the 70's.

My dress looks too short and too shiny. I've just said goodbye at another bus stop, and I'm wondering if he'll remember my number. He asked for it just as the bus arrived, and had nothing to write it on. (he will). (he'll even walk across the city, six miles, to come and see me, but I don't know this yet).

I'm heading home for sunday dinner. I'm heading home to a good dose of scorn, and best attempts to shame and humiliate. (but I don't know this yet).

I stand at the bus stop, alone, and wear the transitory connection like a shield, a talisman, a thing of meaning in a world where I scrabble about, looking for meaning.

The sun's shining, and there's a light wind blowing. I hold my head high, and turn my face to the sun, as I wait for the bus to arrive.