Saturday, 1 March 2014

i'm not standing at a bus stop

You’re sitting in front of the cafe where I said I’d be sitting too. 
I’m late. 
I call out to you and you look up. 
I’m on the other side of the road, waiting for a break in the traffic. 
You see me and you smile. 
I wave hello. 
You’re smiling at me waving hello from across the road.
A bus slows down.
I don’t want a bus; I say so with my hands. 
The driver smiles like he understands, he stops even though I’m not standing at a bus stop. 
I step into the doorway and say, “Sorry, I’m just meeting my friend over there for a coffee.” 
The bus-driver says, “Anytime.” 
I think we’ve got a communication problem here. 
The door folds shut behind me. 
I'm not sure what I'm doing on this bus.
The driver says "two-thirty please."
You probably wonder what I'm doing on this bus.
Some taxi honks his horn.
I buy a ticket and shrug sorry shoulders at you through the grubby windscreen. 
You squint at me, open mouthed, reading something small. 
I shrug again, lifting my hands palm up like I’m weighing two invisible coconuts. 
Your eyes squint smaller and you cock your head till your ear almost touches your elbow. 
This feels like it’s another communication problem. 
The bus takes off, turns a corner and I can’t see you anymore. 
I think I’m getting worse at making friends.

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