The bus stop was empty
except for her and the
bench that didn't expect
anyone. A digital sign
blinked 12:17, then
12:17, then 12:17 —
refusing to commit to
anything more useful. She
sat with her backpack
between her knees and
rehearsed nothing in
particular.
The streetlight hummed. A
taxi slowed, considered
her, drove on. Somewhere
an apartment window was
open and someone was
cooking onions.
She didn't want to go
home yet. She didn't
want to be anywhere else
either. The bench, she
thought, was enough. The
bench didn't need her to
be anything.