Through the Keyhole
Nylon sacks crammed with coconuts—a mountain of fabric and husk. The mountain needs to move and we aren’t going anywhere until it does. Small framed men heft the sacks over their shoulders in no particular hurry. I briefly consider jumping out and putting the damn things on board myself but I’m all jammed up, it’s wall-to-wall strangers and everyone thinks I’m strange.
The little girl to my right won’t stop staring. Staring and giggling. She is wearing a pink head-wrap and Velcro shoes. She probably wants to say hi, she probably wants me to go first. I don’t care. I’m in no mood to entertain. The dude in front of me is staring too. He's a seriously weather baked individual—mostly toothless—bone skinny. He’s got a mouth full of betel nut and he’s letting the blood red juice drip unchecked from the corners of his mouth.