introstory

The bus lurches through another pothole, halogen streetlights strobing through grimy windows. In the back, a bachelor party sprawls across three rows, one of them still clutching a bottle of Fireball in his unconscious fist, another wearing a tiara that reads “BRIDE’S BITCH.” Two rows up, a couple hisses at each other in the careful way of people trying not to make a scene, she’s got mascara tracks on her cheeks, he keeps checking his phone like it holds absolution. The woman across the aisle hasn’t moved in forty minutes, not even when the bus hit that last pothole hard enough to wake the dead. Her hands rest on her knees, fingers spread like a pianist about to play.

“Long ride to New Haven,” comes a voice from beside you, when did she sit down? The acrid smell of gas station coffee stings your nostrils as she peels off the lid. “You got people there? In New Haven?” She doesn’t wait for an answer. “Or are you just looking for a fresh start, wanting to remake yourself?” She emphasizes ‘remake’ strangely, like it’s some private joke. The arguing couple has gone quiet now, the woman staring out the window while the man texts furiously, his thumb jabbing the screen like he’s trying to stab someone through it. “Funny thing about that place,” your seatmate continues, voice casual as discussing weather. “Everyone I’ve met who’s been there tells different stories. My ex said the best year of his life was there. Course, he also lost three fingers and can’t remember how.“

She shifts, and there’s something wrong in the reflection of her face in the window. Too many angles, or maybe not enough. “But you seem smart.” She’s talking again, breaking you from your reverie. “Probably already know the city’s got a reputation. Party town. What happens in New Haven stays in New Haven, all that.” Her laugh is soft, almost fond. “They’re not wrong. It’s just…” She pauses, watching the still woman two rows up who hasn’t blinked once in the last five minutes. “Just remember that every party has a host, and every host expects payment. The smart ones figure out what they’re willing to pay before they walk through the door.“

Outside, something massive moves between the trees lining the highway. Too big to be a deer, wrong shape for a truck. By the time your eyes track back, the seat beside you is empty. Just a coffee cup that’s still steaming, lipstick marks on the rim. The woman who hasn’t moved is watching you now, head turned at an uncomfortable angle. She smiles, a smile with far too many teeth, then smoothly turns back to face the front in her former perfect stillness. The bus sign flickers: 66NEXT STOP – NEW HAVEN, 10 MILES. In the back, one of the bachelor party starts laughing in his sleep, shrill and hysterical, until his friend shakes him awake.