dirty realism.

The last empty seat on the 6.53AM Greyhound to Boston was next to a guy in his early thirties, wearing sweatpants, a hoodie and and a black baseball cap put on backwards. He was occupying the window seat and was rocking back and forth.
I took the aisle seat next to him.
As I sat down, he briefly turned towards me, looking past me.
He then turned back, towards the window.
The bus pulled out of the station. We had three hours ahead of us to get to our destination.
I put in my earbuds, turned on some ambient music and leaned back in my seat.
I closed my eyes. I wanted to get some sleep.
I’m not sure if I’d actually fallen asleep and was waked because of the rhythmic movement to my left or if I’d never managed to doze off in the first place. In any case, soon enough, I was wide awake, staring at the headrest of the seat before me.
“Can I take your portrait?” I said to the guy sitting next to me.
He turned towards me again, looking past me once more.
He said nothing and I took that as a yes.
I pulled my Olympus out of my pocket, cocked the camera, set the focus and took a picture of him.
“Why did you take my picture?” he said.
“Because you are very much like me,” I said.