The Girl on the Bus

Number 27

She had sat on this bus, he was sure of it. In this seat, he was sure of that.

She had been in a video clip, taken by her friend, Sarah. She had been sticking out her tongue and he knew now, for certain, she had done that on this very seat on the red doubledecker Number 27 bus from Oxford Street to the MacDonald Avenue Bridge. 

Sarah said she had suddenly stepped off that stop while she was preoccupied with looking at the video she had just taken. Sarahhad not noticed until the doors were again closed and the bus had moved on. 

The police had been called, missing person's notified, social media posts had been filled with "Where is she?" questions, but now, three days later, here he was, trying to retrace her last steps. 

The Number 27 slowed at the MacDonald Avenue Bridge bus stop, and he felt his shoulders tense. He stood. The doors opened with a "hisssss." He stepped off into the cool night. 

The full moon watched its white reflection dance on the river. Above him, white lights perched atop curved street poles glowed through evening fog. He zipped his jacket to his neck and stood at the bridge railing. He was the only one to get off at this stop. He watched the Number 27 close its doors, rumble into the mist and dark. He was left alone in silence.

It was just as she had experienced. It was the same time of night. 

"Then what did she do?" he thought, looking over the water as oblivious and lovely moonlight danced on the ever-moving, eddying, wide, dark river. 

The indifferent night swallowed up a single sentence he said aloud.

"Where did she go from here?"