Press to Ask

The shelter is rammed earth and lime, with a roof of solar cells and one bulb. The walls are pierced with holes the width of a drinking straw, and through them air comes in, hardly any, cooler than the street. One hole by the bench is plugged with a bus transfer folded small.

The bench is warm. You sit. The sun lies along the avenue.

At the curb a post carries a steel button, and above the button, stenciled: PRESS TO ASK.

A bus comes down the avenue with its lights on and stops at the curb. Its doors stay shut. Behind the glass the driver sits with his hands in his lap, looking straight ahead, and every seat behind him is empty.