Slow Hands

I could smell it, the vodka, as soon as you sat down. The bus jostled and you bumped off of me, into the plexi-glass divider and back–a tipsy metronome. After a few moments of abrupt expletives and digging through your purse, napkins and a tampon wrapper escaping in the struggle, you pulled out a sizable tangle of wires. You looked at me. “Hey, you know, can you help me out? I can’t undo thes–this shit”. I took the clump of headphones and slowly unwound it. “You know, it’s just better to be able to music while on the bus, right?” You expounded as I handed them back. “Makes it better, like, it goes by faster”. I agreed, putting my own headphones back in.