Vagabonds took baths in sinks. Toilets ran. The tile floor reeked of piss. Graffiti on the stalls. Cracked mirrors. A child with his father stands at the urinal. His pants soaked.

A voice over a loud speaker tells passengers to now board for Dallas, Amarillo, Albuquerque, Flagstaff, and Phoenix. With connections to Indio and Los Angeles. Now boarding at gate seven.

The line is long. Grandmothers going across country. Hustlers and hookers with dreams of stardom. Frightened sixteen year olds running away from suburban homes. Old men with booze on their breath traveling aimlessly,  spending social security checks on constant fights with themselves. They hadn’t given up yet.

I sit on the back of the bus, smoking a cigarette and drinking cold coffee. No one is next to me. I am alone, drawing stick figures on the window as we go through New Mexico in early sunshine glory. Surrounded by red clay mountains and cacti. I crush the cigarette out with my boot.

A woman sits across from me. She keeps looking at me with brown eyes. I am naked. Completely exposed. I know I’ve been caught.

Where are you going? She asked.

I don’t know. I told her. My ticket says Los Angeles. I tilt my head and laugh. But, I might change my mind once I get there.

None of us know where we’re going, really. She said. Life’s uncertain. Right? I nodded my head. Some spend a whole lifetime and never go anywhere. They just stay in one place. She told me. Stagnant. Lifeless.

Right, I said. They sell insurance in bumfuck Arkansas.

Is that where you’re from? She asked.

I don’t know. Yes and no. I said.

How so? She asked and reached in her purse.

I’ve just never felt comfortable anywhere. I said. Always moving. Going somewhere but getting nowhere.

Ain’t that the truth, she stated. Ain’t that the truth.

And where are you going? I asked.

To LA,  she said. Got a boyfriend waiting for me.

That must be nice, I said. Someone waiting on you.

She smiled. Took out a handheld mirror and a tube of red lipstick.

He’s lucky, I said. You’re a very pretty girl.

Thanks. He never tells me that. She confessed. I think he takes me for granted. Just expects me to run to him at his command. She laughed.

That’s not funny, I said to her. Sad, I told her. Very sad. I would tell you every day how pretty you were if you were mine. I’d bring you flowers, I said.

It got quiet. She turned and looked out the window at the red clay.

So did I.