Surreal

I hopped on the bus at a different stop than usual, a good third of the way down the line. I walked to the back, as is my good citizenry custom, and promptly engrossed myself in Under the Jaguar Sun. The timing of the line already disoriented, I lost myself in a London of the 1950s or '60s. Sensing myself emerged from the forest of cement and glass and steel, I glanced up to find myself on the bridge, face turning first to one window then the next in unison with all the other passengers, all surprised at the sunset. Sunsets are always beautiful from the bridge, even if they are invisible, smothered by clouds or purpled by smog. This evening's was circular - hence the looking around occurring as I looked up. All around the city was a darkish pink ring. A sunset for all people, no matter the easterly direction of their window or movement. A sunset everywhere you looked. It gave the particular sensation of being on the most western edge of the world.
I fell into my book again in hopes of finishing it before I reached my stop. So engrossed was I that I almost didn't make the connection between my location in the line and the necessity of pulling the yellow cord.
Upon getting off, the world shifted again, not to the most westerly point of all points, but to the place where all bus 8s converge. Three busses in a row stormed by: 8, 8, 8.