It was cold outside, but not too cold, maybe fifty-five degrees or so. I had no coat, so I stood behind the wall where the breeze couldn't give me goose bumps. It was around 4 o’clock, or maybe 5, or maybe somewhere in between. I don’t really remember anymore. As I waited for the bus, I kicked a pebble into the road, and watched the cars go by, trying to track its motion among the squealing tires. I turned back towards the abandoned building where Borders used to be, and looked through the windows. Maybe a new bookstore will open here I had thought. Not very likely anymore.
As I stepped out onto the sidewalk for the 10th time to see if I could tell whether the bus was coming soon, I started to become impatient. It felt as if I had been waiting for a long time, but maybe it was just a few minutes. Normally there aren't many people that walk by that bus stop, but that day there seemed to be a never-ending stream of people. Most of them passed by without a word, caught up in their daily routine, unaware of their surroundings.
One man, however, in his late 60’s, stopped to talk to me. At first, his appearance threw me off, as his wild eyes and ripped up shirt made me uneasy. I responded with a curt “Good”, when he asked me how I was doing. He just smiled, oblivious to my apparent lack of interest, and gave me a wink. “You better be here tomorrow!”, he said as he laughed, walking away slowly. He seemed to know me, but I can’t remember exactly what he looked like.
Does it really even matter what he looked like? I don’t think that I knew him, or ever saw him again, but I might know him, or I might not. I’m pretty sure that the bus came right after he left, but I can’t remember if he got on. I think it probably sounds better if I say that I saw him every day at the bus from then on, but I didn’t, or at least I don’t think that I did.