Going home
They were going from New York to Florida. Six of them, three boys and three girls, got on the bus in the city center, carrying sandwiches and wine in paper bags, talking excitedly. They were dreaming of golden beaches and blue sea as the grey, cold spring of New York. As the bus passed through New Jersey, they began to notice that Vingo never moved. He sat in front of the young people, his dusty face masking his age, dressed in a suit that did not fit him. His fingers were stained from cigarettes and he was chewing his lips all the time. He sat in complete silence. Deep into the night, the bus pulled into a roadside café and everybody got off the bus except Vingo...