by Ben Morton

Created on: January 26, 2007   Last Updated: May 14, 2007

the bus stop

"Good morning." Said the man cheerfully. She hadn't heard him approaching. She had been sitting there at the bus stop, alone until now. She wore a simple red dress and had a hand-decorated cloth bag in her lap. "Do you know when the next bus to the city comes by?" He looked at least sixty, and was wearing a greenish-brown cardigan, which wasn't altogether ugly. "Only, I forgot to check the times, and I need to go into the city." She looked up at him and smiled, and shook her head slowly. "I don't usually take busses," he said, "this is all new to me. My daughter, Lyn told me that I need to buy a ticket when I get on, and I have to have my pension card to show the driver." He sat down carefully at the far end of the seat, and rested his cane against his knees. The seat had been painted green only a few weeks before, and the graffiti was still fairly fresh.

"It's very different, not having a car." He looked her in the eyes, but she quickly looked away, unwilling to hold his gaze. "I'm sorry, I'm bothering you. You don't have to listen to me rabbiting on like an old fool. I'm sure the bus will be along shortly. I didn't mean to bother you."
She laughed almost imperceptibly, and shook her head again, turning back to allow him to continue.
"Only, I'm feeling a bit strange about all this, and I do tend to go on a bit when I'm nervous," he laughed, trying to set himself at ease. "Probably sounds silly to you, you probably take the bus into the city a lot." He paused, unsure how to proceed from this thought. "Nothing to be worried about, Dad,' that's what she said. But she doesn't understand." There was a brief hint of sadness in his face, just for an instant, then it was gone. He stared at the ground, and then at his shoes. For perhaps a full minute, he stared at the small tuft of grass growing through the crack in the pavement. "I haven't been allowed to drive for two years." He told her, "They took my licence away when I turned seventy five. I know I don't look it. Everyone says that. But" he sighed, "my eyes aren't what they used to be." He paused a moment, then took off his bifocals, "and these things well, I guess they're better than nothing."
He began cleaning his glasses with a dilapidated tissue he'd clearly had in his pocket for a month or more. She watched his hands intently for a moment. He wondered if he reminded her of her own grandfather; perhaps he used to sit and clean his glasses like that. He liked that thought. Young people didn't seem to

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