The Mark

A man spit on the bus window.

Not in anger. Just expelled it.

The sound was small—saliva hitting glass,

a wet consonant I'm still hearing.

Everyone pretended.

The driver didn't check his mirror.

The woman next to me shifted her bag.

We were all studying the floor,

the poles, our phones, anything

but the line sliding down the window.

His hands stayed in his lap.

He stared ahead like

the window had always been that way,

like marking didn't count,

like the small wet line

was no different from the dust

that collects there anyway.

I couldn't look away.

The light caught it as it slid.

Almost beautiful. Almost invisible.

The gap between what happened

and what everyone pretended didn't.

When I got off, it was still there.