How does death arrive? Suddenly or slowly? Does it run? Does it sneak?

“Buddy!” a man waves his hand, almost rising onto the tip of one foot. In his other hand he holds a briefcase.

The bus stops. The doors open. The driver looks at him.

“Oh. That’s not mine.”

The driver presses a button, the doors jerk shut, the gearbox growls and the brakes hiss. The bus pulls away. The driver isn’t angry at all, not in any hurry. He’s just doing his job, stopping every five minutes.

But people get angry. “It’s late again.”

How could it not be? Think of all the idiots he has to carry around.

Normal people drive cars. Sometimes they drive fast. But even the ones who drive slowly can get into an accident. Same with the people walking on foot.

Hmmm. What about running? No! Flying! Or maybe it’s better not to do anything at all?

Damn, something is watching me. Not for the first time. Sometimes I feel like we quietly talk to each other. And all the while I keep pretending I don’t see it.

It’s laughing at me.

Little bug, herd, sliding, a e i o u.

I’ll go on vacation, I’ll come up with something. I’ll start exercising. Or writing, singing.

It’s still there.

OK, we’ll be friends.

“A number?”

Sure. A number. Right.

Yeah, I’ll call you, I’ll definitely call you. I promise.

Future.

Fuck, what does it want now?