Flies buzz angrily in the sticky heat of the morning. It is only 8:00 am but temperatures have already started climbing, and are nearing a muggy 27°C. The air is still and heavy, the horizon hazy. No clouds provide shelter from the sun, which is still low in the sky.
The bus stop stands defiantly under the blistering gaze of the sun, a lone figure hiding under the meagre line of shadow its roof gives. His light jacket lays discarded on top of the bag resting at his feet. One impatient foot taps lightly on the cracked pavement. Little, persistent weeds poke up through the cracks. He glances at his watch and looks up and down the quiet road. No bus in sight, he returns to watching the ants march single file across the scorching pavement. One carries what might be a wasp. He peers closer. Yes, a wasp. He marvels at the strength of ants. He recalls that they can carry up to 50 times their own body weight. Maybe it was more. Or less. He shrugs to himself, deciding that it doesn't really matter. They're strong regardless.
He checks his watch, again looking up and down the street. No bus. Reaching down he retrieves his water bottle from his bag, and takes a sip of the now-lukewarm water. He grimaces. He had never been a fan of warm water. Replacing his bottle, he returns to watching the little ants. They seem utterly unbothered by the heat, as they continue to cross the pavement. His eyes follow the trail, but the nest isn't in sight. His gaze goes back to the ants that pass by the toes of his shoes. His feet are hot inside the polished black leather. He frowns in discomfort.
"Hey, uh, can I look at the bus schedule please?" He jumps, startled by the sudden presence of another person. He hurriedly picks up his bag and jacket and moves out of the way, mumbling apologies. The newcomer moves to look at the schedule that is on the back of the shelter, behind where the first man was standing. "No, no, all good," the other man says, squinting at the tiny numbers on the schedule. The first man, having composed himself, takes an opportunity to look at the newcomer. He is dressed in a grey t-shirt with a logo that can't quite be seen, tucked into pale blue jeans. Below the cuff of the jeans and the top of his smart brown shoes, patterned socks can be seen. The first man decides that they are roses with bees flying around them. The second man twists his wrist to look down at a tan line where a watch would usually be worn. "Damn," he mutters. Then he spins around on the balls of his feet. The first man quickly looks up from examining the newcomer's socks. "Do you have the time? I was kinda in a rush this morning, I seem to have forgotten to put on my watch." The second man smiles apologetically, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Oh, uh, it's eight-oh-eight," the first man says, looking up from his watch. "And it's no problem."
"Thanks," The second man says, running his fingers through his wavy hair. "Nice watch."
"Oh, thanks," the first replies. "It was a gift from my granddad for my 18th."
"What brand is it?"
"Citizen."
"Nice, they make nice watches."
"Yeah."
The pair stand in the minimal shade in a somewhat uncomfortable silence, the only noise coming from the ill-tempered buzzing of the flies.
"Gonna be a hot one today." The second man says, uncomfortable with the quietness.
"Yeah," the first agrees, swatting a fly away from his face, "it is," Again the silence settles like the hot air around them. "What bus are you waiting for?" He asks, fiddling with his watch strap.
"Oh, the 114."
"Right."
"Yeah.. what about you?"
"Same as you." The second man nods and the conversation dies. The first man resumes watching the ants.
The second man turns his head slightly to look at the other. He is about average height, probably taller than the second if he wasn't leaning forward. He is dressed smart-casual in an olive polo shirt and chinos, with shiny black shoes. His hair is dark and cropped short.
"So, what do you work as?" The newcomer asks, interrupting the silence again. The first man looks up from the ants.
"I'm a mapping technician," he responds. Seeing the blank look on the others face, he elaborated, "it's.. basically checking and monitoring maps to make sure they're accurate."
"Oh, cool."
"Yeah, it's alright. What do you do?"
"I'm a choreographer."
"Nice."
"Thanks, I enjoy it."
"Yeah, that's good."
"Yeah," They lapse back into silence. "Do you like being a map technician?" The first man smiles slightly at the other's error, but he chooses not to correct him.
"Mm, I guess," he pauses thoughtfully. "It's kind of just a job though, but it's better than working at a supermarket or something." The second man nods.
"Yeah."
"Did you always want to be a choreographer?"
"Um, no," he says, blushing and running a hand through his fair hair, "when I was younger I wanted to be an astronaut fashion designer."
"Like, a fashion designer for astronauts or.."
"Yeah," he says laughing, "a fashion designer for astronauts."
"Well, they always said to dream big."
"So what did you want to be when you were younger? I assume it wasn't a map technician." The first man laughs to himself again at the others fallacy.
"You're right, I definitely never imagined myself as a mapping technician," he sees the second man flush slightly at the gentle correction. Before he could apologise, the first man continues, "I actually wanted to be a firefighter."
"Well, at least that was an achievable dream," The first man laughs. "How come you never became one?"
"Oh, I just never really pursued it."
"Fair enough. Would you.. prefer being a firefighter than a mapping technician?" The first man frowns.
"I, uh, maybe?"
"Well, y'know, my main goal in life has always been to have a job that I love. Because, y'know, so much of your life is spent working, and I just think that if you waste that time doing something you hate or, um, not doing whatever you'd rather be doing, then, what's the point? If that makes any sense?" He rubs the back of his neck and looks at the first man somewhat embarrassedly.
"No, no, it does." The first man says, nodding thoughtfully.
They trail off, each within their own thoughts. This time however, the silence is comfortable, like that between two friends. The second man, gazing up at the empty sky, fans himself with a hand, wondering whether he said too much. He decides that he really ought to start thinking more before speaking. The first man, looking down at the ants but not really seeing them, considers what the other man had said. Does he like his job? Is he actually happy there? Is he just wasting his time on something he doesn't really enjoy?
"Sorry, what's the time?" The second man asks, breaking the first out of his thoughts.
"Oh, it's quarter past."
"Where is the damn bus?!"
