Just a story I felt like writing after hearing a song by Randy Travis.
There were four on the bus as it pulled away from the station; odd that only four out of an airport of millions should choose to ride the six o'clock bus, but odder still the sort of four that sat in the blue bucket chairs, hands folded politely in their laps, eyes flciking over the upholstery that had burst open at the corners and doing their best to examine each other without being suspicious.
On the driver's side at at the forefront sat an aged man perhaps forty-five, his cheeks and hands rough and tanned from work in the fields. His Levi jeans and trucker hat built up a rural air of toughness that fell about him like lazy autumn leaves. His fingers were laced together and strung across a gut that had tasted the bottom of several cases of beer and his beady eyes were dimmed in their power by years of mediocre harvest and sagging crows feet that had arisen from his traveling fatigue. In fact, the cigare