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,/u>/iwhen did she sit down?/u>/iYou got people there? In New Haven?/u>/iOr are you just looking for a fresh start, wanting to remake yourself?/u>/iFunny thing about that place,/u>/iEveryone 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./u>/iBut you seem smart./u>/iProbably already know the city’s got a reputation. Party town. What happens in New Haven stays in New Haven, all that./u>/iThey’re not wrong. It’s just…/u>/iJust 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./u>/i66NEXT STOP – NEW HAVEN, 10 MILES./u>/i