“That is because you always need to remember.”
She pulled the blanket higher.
“You sound like Grandpa.”
The single father smiled faintly.
“That is the nicest insult you’ve given me all week.”
He stepped into the rain.
The woman heard the SUV door close.
Her body changed immediately.
Not dramatically.
A small straightening of her spine.
Her gloved hand moved toward the folded mobility cane resting against the bench.
She had heard cars pass for almost two hours.
Most never slowed.
One had stopped briefly near the intersection, music shaking its windows, then accelerated again.
Another driver had shouted something she could not understand through the rain.
This vehicle was different.
It stopped.
A door opened.
Boots touched wet pavement.
Footsteps approached.
Male.
Heavy but not hurried.
She lifted her face toward the sound.
Narrow black sunglasses covered her eyes despite the fading evening light.
Her sleek black hair had been pulled into a low, precise bun before leaving her apartment.
The rain had left only a few loose strands near her temple.
Her floor-length chocolate-brown coat wrapped tightly around her, its oversized faux-fur collar shielding her neck from the cold.
Beneath it she wore a fitted black dress and knee-high leather boots that had seemed sensible when she left for the day.
Two hours in freezing rain had changed that opinion.
Her black handbag rested beside her.
The paper coffee cup in her left hand had gone cold long ago.
The approaching man slowed before reaching the shelter.
Good.
He did not walk directly into her space.
“Ma’am?”
She said nothing.
He stopped several feet away.
“My name doesn’t matter right now.”
That was a strange opening.
The woman’s fingers tightened around the cane.
The man seemed to realize it.
“Sorry. That sounded worse than I meant.”
She almost smiled.
Almost.
He continued.
“I’m not trying to scare you.”
“Are you waiting for somebody?”
Her voice was calm.
“Yes.”
“A bus?”
“Yes.”
The single father looked toward the unlit route panel.
Then at the weeds pushing through cracks near the curb.
“How long have you been here?”
The woman hesitated.
“Why?”
“Because no bus is coming.”
Her chin lifted slightly.
“That isn’t what the transit office told me.”
His jaw tightened.
“What did they tell you?”
“That the final inbound bus would arrive at seven-ten.”
He checked his watch.
Eight fifty-three.
“They told me the stop was still active.”
The single father closed his eyes briefly.
Of course they did.