by Ani Dorsett
My feet are wet from waiting for you. Everyone thinks I’m waiting for the bus, which I board daily at 8:45, but I’m secretly waiting for you. You damned sprite, you’re always late! I check my pocket watch.
You’ll be here in five minutes. I straighten my coat, tie my laces. The bus is coming. Where are you, you bitch! It stops at the light, 20 meters away. Suddenly, a figure cloaked in red flies across the crosswalk, coat billowing out behind like a cape, shoes in one hand, school books in another. So free, so silly. You screech to a stop right beside me, and put on your shoes.
One day I will say hello. The end of the term is coming soon. My schedule will change. We board the bus. I am angry at you today—for almost missing the bus—so I board first. You cut it very close.
But, what if you sit behind me?
I fumble with the fare, drop my pocket watch, and let you pass by. Picking it up, I see you’ve taken the last entirely open seat. I will have to sit next to a disagreeable, powdery, old woman. Our love has lasted a total of two quarters now. I have to say something. My luck will not hold out.
We’re almost there.
What classes are you taking? Where do you come from? Why do you wear shoes you can’t run in if you’re always late?! Someone pulls the bell to stop, and we pile up down the aisle.
Hey. Did you drop this?
My world ends. Stop.