Bus home

He got on the bus first and sat down in front of me. Then she arrived and sat next to him. There were other seats around, two next to each other all free, so they must know each other, I thought. But they didn’t speak a word as the bus set off.

Did they pay separately, or was it she? Is that why she was second to arrive?

A minute passed, two. I was busy on my phone. No interaction between the two.

He turned a few times to glance at her, and after a brief hesitation (I was watching at this point), reached for her hand clutching her handbag, only with his fingers, so that it could pass as a little nudge wanting to gain her attention, or an attempt to hold her hand if she was pliant. She moved her hand closer to herself, crossing her arms over her bag, hugging herself, hands hidden under the unseasonable but elegant winter coat, under her arms, away from his fingers.

She had a single white hair atop her head, curling to the right. My vantage point was such that I could see it clearly, lying on top of her incredibly dark locks. I was a bit jealous, what with my average brown.

He was ginger.

He realised the dismissal for what it was, and aborted his attempts to gain her attention, maybe to apologise for making her pay for the bus tickets, for dinner, for taking the bus home…

He crossed his arms as she had, and turned to the window. Welcome to the dog house. Big sigh.

Every now and again, his head kept moving though – looking out the window, or at his own reflection; looking straight ahead; looking a bit to the left where she sat – bobbing with the rhythm of the bus driver’s foot pressing on the accelerator and the break.

She kept looking straight ahead.

Does she know about the stray silver hair? I wish I only had one as well. Hers is positioned so that a mirror may not necessarily show it, and how else would she know. Did he mention it, having spotted it from his higher view? Is that why she’s in a huff? I curbed my urge to pluck it, like I do with mine.

Her arms slowly relaxed, and no longer clutched her torso. Still her head remained focused ahead.

No interaction.

He too relaxed a bit, arms no longer mimicking her defence, and his head slightly tilted to the left ahead. Keeping an eye on her body language, no doubt. But it remained closed, and he dared not another approach.

Ginger mixed with a bit of grey. Do guys feel old when they notice their hair is changing to winter?

Light brown, maybe camel coat next to a blue padded jacket. I want to remember these two.

She got up and pressed the stop button, headed for the front door. Picked up the shopping bag, never looked back. He followed a few seconds later. They walked behind each other, slow and silent, while the bus passed them.

I wonder if they’ll cuddle tonight.

I wonder if they realise how lucky they are for having someone to go home with at ten at night.

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