A Life Alongside
There’s a man who’s always at the bus stop. Every morning, just at nine. Snow or drought. Rain or wind. When I’m there, he’s there, standing with his hands in his pockets.
While he waits, he scuffs his worn shoes against the color-drained gum stuck between the sidewalk cracks. He’s of average height, and his neutral face doesn’t stand out. Hair that’s somewhere between brown and blonde. Nearly indescribable. Yet when I’m on the Number 39, turning down Broadway, he sticks in my mind. He must live close by. Our schedules must be similar.
I never ask his name or what bus he’s waiting on. I merely nod. Smile. Stand beside him for 10 minutes or so. Then I continue on, and so does he.
Strangers waiting alongside strangers. Parallel lives.
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