Susie, who is on the bus

leaving Tom. Heading west. Back home to Ohio and starting all over again. Susie, who is dressed in tank top and summer shorts, her waddy thighs bare against the vinyl seat. Susie, who can feel the layers of the women who sat here before her, also heading home.

Susie, who is leaving sudden and backpack and 20 sad dollars. Leaving because Tom told her it was over for the eleventeeth time. This was enough, she had told herself in her head. Susie, who headed for the bus station just like that. Susie, who was thinking she was in a movie or something.

Susie, who has to settle for the last open seat on the bus.  Next to an old woman, 80. Cloth coat holes and a bit too warm for this weather, this freakish November. This sweaty weather that even now, at 9 PM, is holding heat as clammy as a palm. Susie, who is hoping for one of those gray Thanksgivings her mother would surely be having in just a few weeks. Suzie, who is wondering why she left Ohio in the first place. Who leaves people who are certain they love you?

Susie, who isn’t watching as the old woman pulls out a sandwich wrapped in wrinkled foil. Susie, who isn’t watching as the old woman eats. Susie, who hasn’t gotten hungry yet.

The old woman chewing and chomping and the sandwich is smelly, PB and jelly, cut in half but diagonal. Susie, who isn’t watching, but if she were, would say my boyfriend cuts his sandwiches like that. Says it lasts longer like that.

Susie, who is thinking of this typical Tom-logic. Tom, who would also say that love is better when you take it away. Tom, who would say that love lasts longer that way.

Susie, who wanted to explain that a sandwich doesn’t last longer, that it has the same number of bites no matter how you cut it. Susie, who wanted to tell Tom that taking love away doesn’t make it last longer and that after a while, it starts to taste as empty as a night you left 300 miles back.  Susie, who is thinking she should have said this to Tom but didn’t.

Susie, who is too aware of the old woman’s sandwich and thinking about the hunger sudden in her body. Susie, who is looking out the window at the spread of dark over the passing fields, nice and even, like a butterknife did it. Susie, who is thinking she can see a wind picking up the leaves in the roadside trees. She looks at the old woman’s sandwich which is suddenly voluptuous. Susie, who can hear the rumble in her stomach. Clear and steady as the bus rumbling under her. Susie, who is startled by the sound of her own voice when she asks the old woman, “Do you mind if I have a bite?”

Francine Witte is a flash fiction writer and poet, and the author of the flash collection Radio Water. Her newest poetry book, Some Distant Pin of Light, has just been published by Cervena Barva Press. Her work has been widely published, and she is a recent recipient of a Pushcart Prize. She lives in New York City. Please visit her website francinewitte.com. She can be found on social media @francinewitte.