joe

joe sat quietly on the bus, tapping his finger on the seat in front, not hard, or irritating, just tapping, gently, tapping.

The sky was moving quickly now, the clouds rolling like water across the horizon, crashing into the edge of the hills and beyond. Joe stopped tapping, aware of the sky, and the clouds. Ominous, they felt, looming, closer.

But was it something else Joe? Were there really clouds in the sky, or was it something different, was it your conscience, Joe? What is creeping over you? That sense of fear, of dread?

Of guilt?

Joe resumed his tapping on the seat, as he slumped back into the chair, and glazed out of the window into the bright sun.