Public transit for deities (write of passage number twenty-one)

I could have sworn I was riding the bus with Isis and Ishtar today. Isis was seated sideways near the front. Her raven hair was pulled back with artful and deliberate hair-sprayed wisps sticking out from her bun. She wore a black scarf wrapped about her head very much as it is in the accompanying image of Isis and her eyes appeared to be rimmed with kohl, although that was probably the effect of her carefully applied false eyelashes. Her golden off-the-shoulder blouse revealed braided bra straps that hinted at a leopard-skin design. It was clear that under the golden folds, the bra itself was somewhat armour-like with sharp upthrusting edges. Old-fashioned brassieres used to "lift and separate"; today's seem to thrust and bunch. Isis was small-breasted enough for this to work.

In the centre of the aisle, hanging shyly from the overhead handrail, Ishtar stood, plump and rosy as a peach, her belly jiggling pleasingly as she radiated ampleness. When she moved down the bus and stood next to me, I saw that her morning toilet may not have taken quite as long as that of Isis, who sat with her legs delicately crossed in off-white cargo capris. Ishtar's purple empire line tunic top was covered in tiny white cat hairs and on the right side of her generous tummy was a dried splotch of something: possibly jam, possibly spaghetti sauce.

I've had many Ishtar mornings. I'm not sure I've had a single Isis morning....