The Bus Stop

I have a bus-stop friend.

We met about three years ago, back when our schedules coordinated and we took the same bus every morning. I don't remember who initiated conversation; considering I often give off an unapproachable vibe, the fact that I collect random public-transit friends is mind-boggling. But somehow, despite the 7 a.m. exhaustion, we connected. In fact, she once told me, after a chance meeting on a sunny Saturday afternoon, that she thought of me as a daughter. Which I found touching and slightly haunting, as she's easily old enough to be my mother, yet has no children of her own. But then she got ill and went on sick leave. And stopped taking the bus. So our hellos became far less frequent. At one point, I was sure she moved away.

But then I'd see her across the street, waving at me. On those rare occasions when we would run into each other, we'd hug each other like long lost family. And we'd talk about career, health, menstrual cycles. Yes, you have no idea. And then we'd go our separate ways, wishing each other days of unmeasurable fantasticness.

I saw her today. She has a new job. One that will have her taking the bus with me every morning.

I don't know her last name.