"Kid, you're seriously bored," I shook my head.
We'd been sitting at that stop for over an hour. Nothing had changed—no cars passed, no birds landed. The scenery burned itself into my memory like a dried-up tumbleweed. Leaning back against the sunbaked metal, I picked at a stubborn scrap of paper from some long-gone notice. Then the kid's earlier words echoed in my head:
"And you call yourself a creative."
"How'd you know I'm an artist?" I asked.
"It's pretty obvious you're into art," the kid mused after a pause. "You look at the world like you're sizing it up. Stare at trees forever while most people wouldn't even notice a weird branch. Only two kinds of people do that—clueless dreamers or real-deal artists."
"You're too sharp for your age, kid," I smirked.
Memories flashed through my mind—my early days as an artist. That fall when I first dared show my paintings to the world. Broke as I was, I'd painted mini-versions on flyers and plastered them around the neighborhood, scribbling my address so curious folks could see the real pieces.
People came. Not just the next day, but for weeks after—all sorts. Some just wanted to gawk, others to meet "the artist," a few even bought my work (which, hell, felt good). Later, I had to fork over half those earnings to pay fines for illegal postering. The city called it "aesthetic pollution"—never mind that ugly billboards and overflowing trash bins ruined the view way worse than my art ever could. But who was I to argue with the system?
"What're you thinking about?" The kid snapped me out of it, handing me a water bottle.
"Nothing important," I said, taking a swig. "That bus isn't coming today, is it?"
"It'll come. Definitely," Oscar said, weirdly earnest. "Just gotta be patient."
"Patient…" The word tasted bitter. "Always fucking waiting."
"Yeah, well—that's life. What can you do?" He knocked his rubber boots together with a dull thud.
Suppressing a surge of irritation, I started examining all the torn flyers, searching for at least one intact one. After about ten minutes, I found it.
"PORCELAIN FIGURINES. CUSTOM ORDERS," read a small rectangular card, with neatly handwritten phone number strips dangling below.
"Weird," I muttered.
"What is it?" the kid asked.
"The handwriting… it seems familiar."