on the table beside her. She reached for the coffee cup she had placed there just the moment before. She couldn't see the snow anymore. It was just a vague memory already. She crossed her legs on the table in front of her and looked at her bright red painted toenails. The message light was flashing on the phone.
There is no real life on the highway, on the 401 or any other highway for that matter. There are living things on the highway though and with the humming of tires and the exhaust in winter you would think that the highway was alive and breathing. Families and individuals in their automobiles, lonely transport truck drivers sitting above everybody else thinking of the ones they love or ones they are just thinking of. Animals sit in the back windows of vehicles and stare out at the snow and the humans and not knowing the language, wonder what is going on.
The real life is back off the highway where it is rarely seen by the people on the highway. Someone probably stands and stares at the highway longer than the traveller stares out the car window at the house or apartment building in their view. He wondered if he was the only one thinking of these things as he looked around the bus at all of the bored and tired passengers getting ready to get off the bus as it pulled up Avenue Road and let the first batch of people off at the Union Station stop on the west side of the Royal York Hotel. The noise of the city overpowered the slow steady hum of the bus. He looked out the window and watched intently as the students and other passengers grabbed their luggage and headed to the train station for their own connections and their own lives.
He thought about the bus being stopped in traffic on
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