Last Bus

The 11:40 was running late, which meant it was still coming.

He knew the difference. Ten minutes late is still coming. Twenty minutes late has already decided something about your night. It was 11:51 by the sign that didn’t work, and by the phone he kept in his pocket so he wouldn’t have to watch the minutes.

He’d worked a double. He couldn’t feel his feet. The bench at the stop had a metal divider bolted through the middle so you couldn’t lie down on it, so he sat up straight and waited.

Across the street the corner store was open. It’s always open. The man behind the glass lifted his chin at him, and he lifted his back. Neither of them said anything. There was nothing to say, and that was its own kind of company at midnight.

A young couple came and stood a little ways down. Arguing, but soft, the way you argue when you’re too tired to mean it. She said you always do this. He said I’m not doing anything. They’d take the bus together. They’d finish it at home.

A plastic bag lifted off the ground and went up the street sideways. Store light, then dark, then the next light. Gone.

The bus came at 11:58.

It came around the corner too bright, lit up inside like a room that got lost and went looking for people. The doors opened. The driver was a woman he’d seen before. Not a friend. But a face, and a face is worth something at midnight.

He got on. He touched his card to the reader and it made the sound that means yes. He took a seat by the window and leaned his head against the glass.

The couple got on behind him, quieter now.

The bus pulled off. He watched the store slide back, the light going with it, and he thought about nothing at all, which after a double is the closest thing to rest a man gets before he’s home.

Ten more minutes. He had ten more minutes of this.

He closed his eyes and took them.