Bus Stop

At the bus stop. Overnight trip. Eyes feel like open scabs. Terminal is empty. Bus is late.

Hear a rustling. A woman pops out from behind the bench. Her face is grimy, covered in flakes of dirt. Her clothes look like they’ve been rubbed against sandpaper. Threads stick out by the seams. She’s got three layers on, yet she’s still shaking from the cold. The woman asks for my phone. She says she hasn’t talked to her daughter in years. That she needs to talk to her. She wants to see her. Without thinking, I give it to her. I look down, because I don’t want to intrude upon her conversation. She ducks back behind the bench. I hear sobbing, pleading. Last time I heard someone cry was during my grandmother’s funeral last year. I hid back then too. I put my headphones on, but don’t play any music. I clasp my hands and wait for her wails to stop.

I look up, and she’s in front of me. Her eyes are red, like mine. But they’re a deeper crimson, as if her blood is thicker. She places the phone in my hand wordlessly. Her nails are black from wear. I grab my phone and the tips of her fingers for a fleeting moment. When our hands touch, my spine shivers and I inhale. She pulls her hand back, but leaves it floating inches from my hand. She locks her eyes on my hands. Glances up and whispers, “Thank you”.  I don’t respond.

I close my eyes. I hear her shuffle back behind the bench. Press play on my IPod. Wait until the song finishes. I lean over the bench to see if she’s sleeping. She’s gone. I sit back down and rub my fingertips. Check my phone’s outgoing calls. See the number that she called. I don’t recognize the area code. I press dial on the phone.

“This number is not in service…”