No Comprende

The Mexican sat quietly on the bus going east. By midnight the old man would be in Columbus, Ohio. That’s what the ticket said.

His wife slept next to him near the window. Evening sun shined down on her. She’d lift her head every once in awhile, then lean up against the cold glass. Headlights were starting to come on.

He looked at cars on his phone. Ford, Chevy, Dodge, SUVs, pickup trucks, he dreamed of being able to drive again.

Throughout the trip he’d blow his nose on the collar of his flannel shirt. Then it was back to looking at vehicles. He leaned over in the aisle and looked out at the road ahead. The old man looked over at me and smiled. I nodded my head. He spoke in Spanish. I couldn’t understand him. Again he spoke in Spanish. I shook my head, no.

The Mexican continued looking out the front windshield; pointing. Luna, he said. Luna. I closed my eyes and went to sleep. When I awoke, he and his wife were gone.

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