On the corner of Fifth and Main stands a bus stop. It is small, with a tin roof, and has a bench inside that seats two if those two sat with but two inches of space between them.
At 5:44 on a rainy Thursday evening, a teenaged girl hurries down the street to this stop. She's nothing to look at, a brunette in a coat and a scarf, her beanie pulled low. She'll get to the bus stop five minutes after the 5:45 bus arrives, due to her short legs and the idiot who spilled coffee in the cafe in which she works. She'll sit on the two-person bench, alone, until approximately 5:57.
At 5:43, a boy sprints down Fifth. He has just finished watching an outdoor puppet show. He had sat between rich tourists "absorbing the culture of the city," and had pick-pocketed enough cash to pay the fare home, with enough left over to buy food for the week. In his hurry to get away from the tourists and their spoiled children, the boy runs past the bus stop and misses the bus. By the time he realizes it, it will be 5:47 and he will be five blocks away. It will take him ten minutes to walk back, not because he is out of breath, nor because of the rain, but because he knows the next bus does not come until 6:15. When he gets to the stop at 5:57, he'll realize that he has company for the next 18 minutes and wonders if he can take enough from the pretty little girl to splurge on some hot chocolate.
