A Shrine to an Unknown God

VESSEL

APPARENTLY, I do not know what a bus is.

When we reach the station, Marisol shows her phone to a man hidden behind a sheet of glass. He hands us each a flimsy little piece of paper through a mousehole cut cleanly at the bottom of his protective barrier. Marisol thanks him over and over again and he looks at us plainly, blinking slow, holding a brown, earthy looking thing with smoke coming out the end of it between his teeth.

She grabs my wrist, her hand warm as ember, and leads our little group out to a roofed area where a group of people are waiting to file onto—I guess it is the bus? Sleek, gray, and smooth. Hm. It reminds me of a dolphin. What a strange, funny little chariot.

Ezra climbs in before me, and then it is my turn.

I hesitate, one foot on the stairs, my hand loose against the reflective gray handrail. The steps are a ribbed tarry black like I have never seen before and for a moment I think we're climbing into the depths of the underworld.

"Hurry it up, miss," snaps the man sitting at the entrance, lazily clutching at a black wheel. "They ain't paying me to let the likes of you enjoy the view."

Marisol's hand hovers just above my back. "Go on, it's okay."

I clamber up the strange stairs, clinging to the handrail. Inside the vessel I feel as if I have been transported out of this world; tall, blue seats line the aisleway, with large sheets of glass on either side. The floor beneath me is made of the same ribbed tarry material as the stairs.

Ezra leads us deep into the belly of the beast, all the way to a row of four seats pressed up against the very back of the bus. He slides all the way to the window, and I sit down beside him, placing my bag underneath my seat. It seems the natural place for it to go. Marisol sets herself down beside me, and Dahlia gets the second window seat.

The fuzzy seat fabric itches my legs.

Dahlia instantly curls up against the side of the bus, her legs tucked up beneath her, and closes her eyes. Similarly, Ezra kicks his legs up onto the back of the seat in front of him, sinks down low into his own seat, his head tilted backwards. He's snoring just like that.

"Antigone," Marisol says. "Can I braid your hair? It's so long, I just wanna . . . "

I nod and turn so that the back of my head is facing her. She runs her fingers through my hair, her fingers catching in the tangles in it before gently untangling them.

"Your hair's so soft. I just wish I thought to buy a hairbrush."

She divides it into three sections and takes her time evening them out, going hmm each time she takes hold of a chunk and moves it into a new section. Once she's satisfied she takes hold of the two side sections and begins braiding them into the middle piece.

I'm so exhausted from manning the boat all night, and the feel of her hands in my hair is so soothing, I could pass out in her lap right then and there. If only she could keep braiding my hair forever.