Ritual
He leaned his face against the window of the bus. The surface smooth and cool against his burning cheek. it was a ritual, his ritual. And like all rituals, it had to be done right, or it wouldn't work, wouldn't mean anything. The roll of the bus as it travelled, the vibration of the window, the angle of his face, the rise and fall of his chest, the flow of blood from his crossed ankles to his thumping head, all added to the significance of the ritual moment that was his.
