I waited at a third bus stop this morning. Alone, off to the side. Under shade. I sweat like a fresh cheese and it comes without effort. I waited alone for a long while until a little old woman under a pink hat and in pink sweatpants and a pink sweatshirt showed up. She sat on the bench some twenty feet away. We were both on the other side of the sidewalk, facing the trains. I checked my phone occasionally unless there was a good-looking girl up on the train platform, then I glanced up and admired. I remained in the shade. It must have been thirty minutes that way.

I’d waited at the first bus stop earlier in the morning and the bus flew by. I’d walked a few yards ahead to the next bus stop and waited again. That all was about twenty minutes. The bus came and drove me about fifteen minutes up the way. That’s where I waited some more, with the old woman.

I waited and she waited until, finally, I couldn’t keep waiting. My patience was gone. I approached her.

“Excuse me,” I said. She turned. “Is this the 260?”

She nodded and looked ahead for a second, then turned up toward the sign and pointed. “260. Redwood Shores.”

“Oh, okay. So this is the right spot?”

She nodded again. “Redwood Shores. 260. You go to Redwood Shores?”

I nodded. She smiled and nodded, then patted the seat next to her.

“Oh, I’m alright,” I told her. “I’ll just wait here.” I waited a minute and when the bus was still not in sight, I sat down.

We sat together and watched the trains, and the birds, and the people. I had my hands folded over my stomach when I would have normally stretched out over the back of the bench. I did not want to be presumptuous. Occasionally, we turned toward the north and toward the south to look for the bus.

“Is the bus usually this late?” I asked.

She hesitated for a moment as she constructed her response.

“11:05,” she said. “1 hour.” She pointed to her wrist watch. “10:05, 11:05, 12:05.”

I nodded. We were five minutes away from 11:05. “Ah, okay.”

Eventually, two buses arrived. One was marked as 260. It made the turn, dropped off passengers, and then passed us by. It was marked as NOT IN SERVICE. Another bus that was also marked as NOT IN SERVICE passed us and parked in the train station lot. I waved my hand toward it exasperatedly.

“Is that the 260?” I asked, and she nodded worrisomely.

When 11:05 arrived, I brought out my phone. I checked the transit app. It said the bus should have arrived at 10:31.

She turned toward me to see what was so urgent. I tilted the phone. “This is the app that shows the bus times. It says the bus should have been here at 10:31.” She smiled and nodded.

When 11:09 arrived, I stood. ”I’m going to go ask him if that’s the 260. I’ll be right back.” She looked on with the same worried expression.

I was nearly at the bus when the sign changed from NOT IN SERVICE to 260. I walked back to the bus stop and found the old woman and another younger woman who had just come off one of the trains. Two buses appeared, one of which was the wrong one. The old woman waved it away. When the 260 appeared she jumped for joy, and we boarded.

She patted the seat next to her on the bus, but I would take up more space than was fair to her. I sat on a seat across the aisle. Our ride was quiet and I was quickly off the bus.

“Nice to meetcha. Take care,” I said. She waved goodbye.

I needed juice, so I walked into a Jamba Juice near the bus stop and ordered two juices. I had a coupon for BUY ONE GET ONE FREE. They were out of carrot and OJ was good enough.

I walked to my workplace.

A coworker immediately asked me if I wanted a gas mask when I arrived. I initially politely declined, but then I offered a trade for one of my OJs. We traded. I took two long swigs of my remaining OJ and got to work.