Denver’s Parade of Lights was quaint and small, as the woman from New York predicted. I liked her, but I liked the parade less, arrived late, couldn’t snap a picture without a quarter of some old woman’s head in it, couldn’t see the whole of the fairy-blue pirate ship. I chased it via the streets not blocked off.
fairy-light floats around the corner
Market Street Station was nearly empty. Ah ha! I could be the first in line for the B. I claimed my spot by Gate 8’s double doors, sitting cross-legged, eating mints covered in dark chocolate. I had never been first on a bus in my life. A boy joined me, also seated. Three women clustered to my left, although the line had already formed to my right. I glared at them, defending my position.
The bus pulled up, and the driver dismounted, declaring, “I’m just coming in, folks.” Puzzled, we maintained our positions, me against the three women. I would be first! Then another driver announced, “Gate 7!” A Denver-sized rush ensued. The three women reached the door and turned around, one looking smug.
Dad, baby in backpack,
declines my seat with extra legroom,