Bus Stop - A Short Story

Bus Stop

Every day the bus came by the exact time. 7:14 am. It was always the same. It reminded me that things will never change. Things stayed the same, whether you wanted them to or not.

Every day I saw her at the bus stop. She didn't take my bus, but the one after mine. That's okay. I kind of wish I could take her bus, and see where she goes. Not follow her, that would be too creepy. There's a difference between following and watching from a distance. There's a difference between knowing someone by heart, and knowing someone by mind.

I know this girl by heart. I can tell where she's been, what she's done, who she's kissed. She comes five minutes before my bus comes. Every day she wears something different, which I like. She's not black and white, like I am. Which is why I could never talk to her.

But you don't need to talk to someone to know them. I've never spoke a word to her. I've never heard her voice. I bet it's beautiful. Even though she's never spoke to me the year I've been taking this bus, I know more about her than I know myself.

She wears eccentric clothing, like loose harem pants, or overalls. I wonder what her work is. Maybe an artist, sometimes there are spots of paint on her clothing. She doesn't wash them off, I think she likes them. Her hair is red and full, curly and always pulled up into a messy ponytail. Her cheeks are pale, but often flushed in the cold Seattle air. Thin lips, and faint beginnings of laugh lines. I bet she smiles a lot. 

I don't know how old she is, probably a freshman in college. She has no ring on her finger, I'm happy of. Maybe that's where the paint comes from, an art class in South Seattle College. So she's younger than me, but only by a little. I love her attitude, she's classy and fresh, I can tell by the way she walks. It's kind of a swagger, she's very proud of herself and how far she's come. I am too. Proud of her, not me.

When she arrives at the bus stop early in the morning, she smells of flowers and coffee. I bet she has a garden. It would probably be full of sunflowers and tulips. And the coffee, maybe she doesn't drink it black, but likes a little cream. I can just tell. She is often very energetic in the mornings, which lead s me to believe she has more than one shot.

Her nose is big, yet it makes her cute, and adds another layer to her face and features. Once I made eye contact with her, big green eyes full of wonder and love. It made her blush, and the pink blossomed over her cheeks. She had smiled, it had made me very happy.

She always carries a backpack, it looks pretty old, she probably used it most of high school. Maybe what she carries in there is not just for her work, but the memories of school with her friends. She probably had a lot of fun in high school, considering what I know of her. She seems the kind of student that are the teacher's pet, yet get fair grades, like B's and a few C+'s. She had friends that are different from her, maybe an athlete, a jokester, and a dancer.

Some days she shows up with tear-stained cheeks. I wonder who broke her heart. Was it a lover, a friend, a family member? Was it someone she cared about? Would they ever make up? I believe that if you really love someone, you will always forgive, maybe not forget, but forgive. I myself only have a few dear to me, and the Bus Stop Girl is on that list.

Some days she shows up happier than others. Some days I can just feel her vibrating, something exciting just happened. Maybe her birthday? A friend's birthday? Or maybe she's just happy. For no reason. I wish I could be like that, I need a reason to be happy. Watching her makes me happy.

On days when it rains, she either brings a bright yellow umbrella that fills up the area with warm light, or she just lets the rain fall. It makes me so lighthearted to see her face shining with the drops, untroubled and smiling.

I'd say her favorite color is green. Or maybe yellow. She obviously likes bright colors. Or maybe white. White, to represent a blank canvas. Or a clean slate. Making something new out yourself. Something she would one day help me with.

One day I imagined myself with her. I had the fleeting image of a drawing I've seen in an old middle school classroom; Two people, one bright, full of joy and color, reaching out towards the other, black and white. The bright one was giving the other color. I smiled, that seems about right.

She was different from the crowd, a salmon flowing downstream, rather than upstream with the rest of the crowd. It was easier, it made her stand out. I wish I could compete. I was plain, your average twenty-year old guy, making a living off Starbucks and doing what the others did, shopping where the others did, saying what the others did. I would die without a legacy.

Yes, I would die without anyone remembering me, but I didn't care, as long as I know the Bus Stop Girl. The way I know her doesn't matter. I feel like I'm living off her life, I'm happy for her, sad for her. I don't care about my own life.

One day I realized I was deeply in love with this woman. I always knew I loved her, I never realized how much. She meant something to me, she was a part of me, though she didn't even know me. Did she know who I was? I'm insignificant. I was just like the others. Of course she didn't know me. 

I wonder what her name is. I'd call her Isabella, Tracy, or maybe even a Maria. Although I realize now, a name doesn't define who you are. What she's showed me, that defines who she is. And even then it doesn't. For all I know she could be dark and miserable. You choose who you want to show the world, it won't always be who you really are. 

Even then, I liked to think of her as the odd beautiful person she is. Maybe she was dark and miserable inside. I would never know until I talked to her for real. But really, the side she shows is a part of her. It works for anyone, really. If someone says they're hiding behind a smile, at least they're smiling. We all have two sides, and both of them compose you.

I remember the day very clearly I decided I wanted her to meet me. I felt it in my heart it could no longer go on like this, I had fallen in love with her helplessly. I had finally taken those three steps over to her to talk.

The thing I love about our story, is I had gotten to know her pretty well over the year I had fallen in love with her, the year we never even spoke. I had learned her ways, learned who she was just by seeing her, watching her from a distance. The thing I love about our story is as I became her friend, and soon best friend, and soon husband, is I got to know her, got to fall in love with her all over again.