Sol wished that she could hail buses on demand. She always seemed to ride the buses on the forgotten routes. Buses with stops without rain covers, lone outposts nervously jutting out of the sidewalk. Buses with schedules that were too complicated to even attempt to fathom: normal stops on Tuesdays, except on streets running northeast to southwest, express stops on Thursdays, except between the hours of some inconvenient time and some other inconvenient time. Buses for brokeasses. Sol actually could afford a cab or a rideshare, but it felt bougie.

Accordingly, Sol stood still as rain continued to deluge her flimsy blue poncho. Cars zoomed by, reaching speeds only intended for highway travel, but she was undisturbed. Faster traffic means a bus should be here sooner, she assured herself repeatedly, never convinced.

“Girls are like buses: miss one, next fifteen one coming,” she chanted sardonically, wondering what bus Gucci Mane used to catch. Her poncho fluttered around her as the rain continued.

After forty damp minutes, a bus finally arrived, lumbering to the stop. Only one patron was on board, flanking the driver, ready to exit. Sol could already taste the joint she would roll when she finally made it home, inhaling deeply as the bus doors opened, exhaling the sole rider.

Sol climbed the steps, her Breeze Card ready. “Sorry, ma’am,” the bus driver said, sticking out a gloved hand in obstruction. “This bus is out of service.” Sol shot the woman a look of pure malice then stepped off the bus, the doors whisking shut behind her. A loud decompression followed, the bus slumping over like a beached whale, gases expelling into the air. Why did unavailable buses insist on retiring in the fucking street?

Sol felt anger course through her, pooling in her right foot, which she used to kick a half-crushed Coke can into the street. She hated Old National.

The anger left just as quickly as it had come, settling down into disappointment. She had been looking forward to the long, slow bus ride, to the chance to collect herself before the guaranteed stress of dealing with her parents, but rain wasn’t relaxing when you were in it. Traffic it is, she decided, walking away from the stop and hailing an Uber.

The driver arrived quickly, beckoning her into a white 1991 Cadillac DeVille. Stepping in, Sol marveled at how spacious the back seat was. The driver, a slim Latino with a sullen face, said little as he sped through the rain, but Sol could feel his eyes flitting toward her.

“Keep your eyes on the fucking road,” she warned him.

“Sí, el jefe,” the man said sarcastically, suddenly turning on the radio. She understood what he said, but Sol ignored the slight and listened as two excited male broadcasters rifled through the day’s news.