The Last Bus and Its One Passenger

I take the 2:10 home after close. it's always empty. the driver, me, the heater rattling.

except there's a guy. back left, by the window. he was there last night. and the night before, I'm pretty sure, though I didn't really clock it then. same seat every time. hood up, hands in his lap, looking out at nothing, because there's nothing out there this late but the reflection of the inside of the bus.

I get off at Ash. he never does. I've never once seen him get off. the bus just pulls away with him still in it.

tonight I stayed on an extra stop. told myself I'd walk the block back, no real reason. I wanted to see where he goes. he didn't move. we passed my street, the dark church, the closed laundromat with its one light still on. he kept watching his own reflection.

I pulled the cord and got off fast, two stops early, and stood on a corner I only half know while the bus carried its one passenger on.

it's nothing. people ride late. I know that.

but walking back I realized I've started picking my seat by where he isn't. I plan the last twenty minutes of my night around a stranger who has never once looked at me. that's the part that keeps me up. not him. me. rearranging my small life around the back left seat of an empty bus.