His wide eyes are the first thing I meet. The rest of his face is partially covered by the seat in front. Claiming the back of the musty bus, he sizes up the throngs that stampede in anxious to land on the vacant narrow and lumpy polyester seats.
Sluggishly rummaging through purses and oversized gym bags, fatigued travelers settle in with a book; cue up their iPod playing lists, and wait for the bus to pull away from the coach station.
He sits straight, practically immobile, running a steady index finger along the edge of a large manilla envelope placed on his lap.
Not a second past its scheduled departure, the bus roars its engine much to the contentment of its passengers.
His gaze, young but weary, fixes itself outside the dirty plexiglass window.
From where I sit, across the aisle, I spot the emblem of a local university (coincidentally one of my old academic haunts) with its dark navy ink stamped ceremoniously on the envelope.
With the small town rushing by, he snorts - once, twice. He pulls the official-looking papers out of the envelope: schedules, orientation maps, more correspondence. Studiously thumbing through them, he raises a brow, the tip of his tongue sticking out in full concentration.
Was he reminiscing over the orientation day's boisterous activities?
Was he replaying a conversation he'd had with an academic advisor - had he settled on his program of choice, will he stick with it?
Was he holding a rejection letter he'd mustered up the courage to storm into the academics office to appeal?
Whatever had transpired during that brisk Spring day seemingly held his attention for the duration of the trip.
At our arrival gate, he clutches the envelope securely in his hand, the only possession he's brought with him, and files out, vanishing in the rushing crowd.
I wish I would have turned to him, and asked him; "So...Did you get in?"
