Passing air

By: Charlotte Shum

My hand fiddles around the smooth surface of the door, before finally pushing it open with a soft grunt. The warm summer breeze flows through the doorway; striking me with the stark contrast to the air-conditioning inside.

For a moment, I freeze—standing still. My still raised hands barely twitch; indifferentiable from a house plant with my pale, twiggy arms almost reaching for the blazing sunlight.

Another—stronger—gust of balmy air charges towards me. My baggy clothes loudly rustle, sticking to my chest as my messy hair is even more messed up. The disapproving tuts of pedestrians nearby spreads warmth through my cheeks.

It had taken practically hours to make myself look, or at least feel, somewhat presentable. Moments ago, I constantly burned my delicate fingers on the too-hot iron that seared through my clothes. It was a difficult task judging whether the fabric’s wrinkles were smoothed out based purely on temperature.

I lick my fingers with my dry tongue, and comb through my bristly hair in forceful strokes, though my hand keeps getting tangled in the locks.

Sighing, I let my hands fall to my sides, as yet another gust of wind shoots towards my face. My tousled hair is clamped to my forehead by the growing beads of sweat.

The cold air of the building behind me brushes my shirt with its wispy fingers. I’d much rather stay inside than go out in the hot and humid weather, but alas, I shut the door in its face.

I step out; feet now lightly planted on the uneven pavement. The sounds of unintelligible chatter, of pets yapping, of bicycle bells ringing, can be heard around me. With the confidence of a coward, I hurry—following the stable voice of an announcer to a bus terminal. “2 minutes to departure” he states, with a forced sense of urgency I wonder how long he’s practised.

The smell of gasoline and sweat radiates from the bus and those in the queue. I cover my nose with a shaky hand and shuffle to the back of the line. Elbows hit my chest as the occasional foot kicks my leg. One particularly powerful arm shoves me against a glass wall. I feel like a bony punching bag.

I walk faster, but the countless other odd body parts still continue to ram at my chest. With a huff, I elbow my way through the thick crowd, though hisses of annoyance still make their way at me—spit and drizzle splash onto my cheeks.

I’m out—having stumbled through the amalgamation of spit and elbows. Now, away from the rest of the group, I breathe in. But quickly I cough out in sharp breaths while drizzle jumps out of my mouth and the tinge of sweat intensifies. God, it stinks.

I wipe my mouth with my shirt sleeves. Behind me the chatter of the queue becomes quieter and quieter, as I rush towards the front of the bus just before the doors close and slip in, leaving the utterly disgusting smell of sweat and spit behind. The driver grumbles and I pay my fee.

Out of breath. I collapse in the seat next to me; heaving a euphoric sigh of relief, and slump down in the rough, fabric-covered seat.

A soft breeze blows at my face. Not strong to mess up my hair, or my clothes.

Finally, I deeply breathe in. A sense of calm and tranquillity rises in me. The temperature is not hot or humid, for once.

But then, just then, a slight scent of rotten eggs becomes apparent—the driver passes an outrageously loud, ridiculously gassy fart. I shudder.