The Bus Window Grease

Dear Delyara, I leaned my head against the glass of the upper deck tonight and felt my forehead slick against a smudge left by a previous passenger. It was a deeply unpleasant, immediate reminder of the city’s shared surfaces. We are constantly rubbing against the invisible physical residue of strangers—their oils, their breaths, their skin cells—pretending we are completely separate entities while navigating the exact same dirty tubes. I didn't pull my head away, though. I was too tired to care, and the vibration of the engine against my skull was the only thing keeping me awake.