The Lost Hour

Its dark outside. Long bus journey from London Bridge to home. Sitting nestled into the seat, arm against the window, stranger pressed into the seat next to me. He's reading. I look out the window, music playing through my ears. Lights buildings streets stations trees pass by. HEat pumps out beside my feet, my legs get hot. The bus trundles along.

Somewhere between seeing the fancy lights on the Gainsborough Studios Apartments and Clissold Park I lose consciousness. The warmth, the music, the rocking. I wake with a start worried that a. I've overshot my stop, b. I've been snoring, c. or dribbling, d. or resting my head on the stranger's shoulder. In that order. I hold my breath in anxiety for a while. And then finally can be relieved that none of the above are true. Phew.