The bus stop

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Her mind was racing. She used to see him there, sitting down calmly while talking on his cellphone; always wearing a brown fedora and occasionally caressing its side as if the tactile connection was necessary to keep him in this world, at this moment.

A pair of tired feet guided her to the familiar bus stop, a three button blue coat keeping her warm, and her heart beating slightly faster than normal… He was there, and again, they shared a glance. One throat swallowed making an audible sound, and it echoed to the place and time the writer of the story is currently at.

It was a cold late afternoon, one of those who remind you of recycled paper instead of orange and pink cotton candy. The tiny roof was leaking rain drops that accumulated up there not too long ago, and as they fell down they were serving as part of the soundtrack of silence clashing against the carved concrete tiles, along with the noisy engines kept inside the multicolored passenger vehicles.

One minute, seven months, or an eternity went by. Making her way through the crowd, a last bus of the line 27 was taken by her. He left right after that.

And it was not because he waited for her every day, it was not to see her come and to watch her go. It was not because he was struggling for courage to start a conversation with her. It was not for a certainty, that was only building inside her… No. The trip back home took him there every day, at the same hour as hers, and he had a bus to take.

And time, eventually, said it best.

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