Audrey Chassels: An Observation

When I got on the bus, it was empty. Silent, except for the sound of the engine, and my breathing, slow and calm. With the inevitable lurch, the bus left the stop, leaving behind the exasperated few who were still waiting. Silence.
This bus runs through a grungy area, i think to myself, and brace myself for the hordes of unpleasant, raucous passengers who regularly ride this bus. They do come, yes, but with them arrives two different types. I hear that BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP that I hate so much while the ramp is being lowered, and a woman asking for the help of the driver.
A wheelchair is pushed onto the bus, its passenger an old woman, frail and shaky, as if the wind that clings so to the bus was that of a hurricane. Her delicate hand is wrapped in a bandage, and while eying it I notice the woman's fingers; long and thin and shuddering, like branches of a tree during an autumn gale.
She looks at me.
I look at her.
She blinks and looks back out the window, which is when I notice what must be her caretaker. She has a tattoo of a crown of thorns on her chest, cut off by the green fabric of her shirt. Her hair is black with wisps of orange and gold poking through. She too, has long beautiful fingers, although hers are summer branches, solid and unfaltering as she attaches the wheelchair to the special seat.
I look down and notice a label on the wheelchair.

AUDREY CHASSELS, VAC.

"Hello, Audrey" I think.

Her face remains blank. She is extremely old. My anxiety upon reaching this stop where the pavement is so dirty and speckled by gum and spots of oil is muted, and I can only think about Audrey. What she look like when she was young? Would she remember fleeting images of herself in gilded mirrors of a glamorous ballroom, in a dress she hoped would attract the attention of young Master Chassels, who she so liked?
The girl with the tattoo took her hand and Audrey's gaze returned once more from the window.
Here's my stop.
"Bye Audrey," I think to her.
She looks up at me and smiles.