Notes
The bus stop in November
A plastic shelter, a timetable nobody trusts, and the only quiet on the way home.
Nils Berg
The stop by the school has a bench that holds two people if neither of them has shopping. After four it is schoolbags and wet jackets. After seven it is just the timetable light and whoever missed the 18:12.
I stood there last Tuesday with a book I wasn't reading. A woman asked if the 18:40 still existed. I said I hoped so. We didn't talk after that. The bus came, which felt like a small administrative miracle.
Why I write it down
Not because a bus stop is profound. Because I keep thinking the day happened in the office, and then I remember the seven minutes of cold air and the fact that I didn't check my phone. That is the part I would lose.
