Parker — that night

I waited for the bus longer than necessary. I could have walked. I often do. But there are evenings when one wants to be conveyed, not carried by one’s own legs.

She was already at the stop. Sitting. Hands folded. Looking straight ahead in a way that suggested she was neither waiting impatiently nor enjoying the wait. I stood. Sitting beside someone at a bus stop feels like a proposal of sorts.

I checked the application. Two minutes, it said. I told her, partly to be helpful, partly because announcing a time gives the waiting a shape. When it became four, I said nothing. Applications are hopeful by nature. One learns not to repeat their promises.

She didn’t comment. I liked that. There are people who measure time out loud. Others who allow it to pass without remark.

We spoke, lightly. About the delay. About how buses no longer acknowledge inconvenience. I said it felt like Tuesday. She didn’t correct me. I took this as a kindness.

When the bus arrived, we boarded without hurry. I chose a seat halfway back. She stayed near the front. There was room to move closer. I didn’t. Some distances feel intentional once established.

When I got off, I nodded. She looked up. That was all.

The application later revised itself, as applications do. I noticed, though it no longer mattered. The waiting had already been accounted for.