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Bus Stop

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The doors opened with the familiar exhaust of air. He stepped with a measured, cautious step off the bus. His backpack weighed heavy on shoulders, much like the day had been. He glanced at the bench and decided to stand. Not that the bench was dirty or wet, but he felt the need to stand before the next bus arrived.

He had hoped the day would go smoothly, even uneventfully. But several emails had changed that, not to mention a couple of meetings that had bookended his lunch. He was tired in a lack of a fatigue way. His brain had been pulled in several directions to respond the unceasing demands. Even though he had been plastered with varuious requests of his time and talents, he had remained patient.

Maybe it was the thoughts of her that had kept him. He stood behind the bench and smiled. The morning before the day from hell had been spent in her arms.

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Something’s always brewing at night.