Savannah and the Notebook
Savannah stepped off the bus, shivering. “LAST STOP!” The gruff, bearded bus driver hollered, rather unnecessarily, Savannah thought. The other two passengers de-boarded behind her, a tall, John Wayne-esque aging cowboy with a white mustache, faded cowboy hat and “denim tuxedo” of a pearl-snap long-sleeved shirt, brass belt buckle and dark jeans. Cowboy boots, pointy, of course, Savannah thought. She always took notice of people’s shoes. You can tell a lot about people by their shoes. The other passenger made his way off the bus, also slowly, a portly man in his 30s, with dark hair, black jeans and black Metallica shirt. Metallica and a denim tuxedo, classic Wyoming, Savannah thought. He was wearing tennis shoes that had probably once been white, now rust-colored from the “red dirt” that permeated everywhere, covered everything in this part of Wyoming.
