On the Bus

On the bus from the downtown to Hafnarfjörður I sat near a young teen. All black outfit adorned with skulls and holes, sweet face where roundness of the cheeks hadn't been replaced yet by angles and hard lines.

He stared at the window, I - at people. Either out of boredom or anxiety he brought his right hand to his mouth and mindlessly started to bite his nails. Automatically, I snapped, "Stop it. Right now!" He jerked his hand from his face, casted me a "what the f-ck" glance and glued himself to the window.

For the remaining 15 minutes of the road his hands laid still in his lap.