The People You See When You’re Waiting for Your Bus

I saw him walking towards me and I recognised his gait immediately, even though it had been more than forty years. The same bear-like frame, the same slight hunch of the shoulders. His beard — worn the same way, cropped close to his jaw line — was grey, but that was to be expected. He was holding the hand of a slim, stylish woman with long, blonde hair, and I noticed it was his wife, also the same.

Against my better judgement, I stopped him and his wife as they were walking past me, saying his name and hello.

“Refresh my memory,” he said. His eyes crinkled at the corners.

“We used to work in the bank together. In the country. It was a long time ago.”

“Ah, yes. I remember your smile,” he said.

I wondered if he also remembered the night we spent together, before he was married. We didn’t have sex, but it was awfully close. Underwear stayed on, although our bodies were keen for something that required no underwear.

My mother came around to his house in the morning, looking for me.

He lied to her, because what else could he do?

“Can’t stay and chat,” he said. “We’re late to the football.” I had noticed the teal and white scarf around his neck, and the gold and red scarf around his wife’s.

And, still holding his wife’s hand, he walked away from me, leading her through the maze of people littering the footpath, chatting to her, I assume, about the game.