It is five o’clock, and Hallie’s bus is late. Sure, she doesn’t have anything else to do for the entire rest of the evening. But it feels important to get home early. Her eyes practically glaze over at the thought of the throw blanket on her couch. The way the white sherpa will feel between her toes. She’ll light a candle, of course. It will smell like Christmas and fall with a hint of springtime breeze.
But right now, she is standing in the slight drizzle near Central Park—bus absent. She considers that she could walk home, but this would likely be more infuriating than waiting for the bus. If she walked, she knew she’d spend each step chastising herself for not walking quicker. Time is of the essence, she tells herself. Except that it isn’t.
As previously mentioned, she has nary a place to be this evening. She lives alone: no one will be waiting up for her. She doesn’t have a pet, not even a goldfish. The only person to cook dinner for is herself. If she’s being fully honest, she’s not even that hungry.
So if all of this is true, why is her heart palpitating at the fact that her bus has yet to arrive? She’ll get home when she gets home, she tells her rambunctious brain. There may as well be a game of pinball going on up in there with the way her thoughts are bouncing against her gray matter.
She taps her foot. The man next to her glances her way. Hallie glares at him. She knows foot tapping is annoying, but it serves a purpose: perhaps if her tapping toes can outpace her thoughts, she’ll be able to chill the fuck out for a second. No man should come between a woman and her entirely made up coping mechanisms.
Really what it is, she explains to herself—the glaring man inspiring a new train of thought—is a desire to be home, safe and sound. The city is dangerous in the evenings! The sun is setting earlier. She’s a woman out alone. Sure, she has pepper spray, a taser, and a knife in her purse as well as a black belt in multiple styles of the martial arts. But she would really hate to use her weapons or skills. Better to avoid the situation altogether.
She is thinking about jogging now. That would get her home almost as fast as the bus—if the bus keeps not arriving. But what if the raindrops grow thicker? She’s wearing a jacket without a hood. Will she risk getting her hair wet in this way? Such a thing will mess up her entire washday routine for the week.
No, no. It’s too risky, all of it. She must wait for the bus.
The rain gets heavier, and Hallie ducks under the bus awning. It’s just her and an old woman with a cane perched on the bench.
Great, she thinks to herself. This hag will definitely slow the bus down. Everyone will have to wait for her to board slowly and the bus driver, if he is courteous, will wait for her to be seated before driving. An extra thirty seconds added to her journey, at least.
Headlights spear into her eyes. Rainwater splashes against her ankles. The bus arrives.
The bus arrives!
Hallie runs toward the front, beating the old lady to it. She sighs with relief, her damp jeans rubbing against the seat’s plastic. The old lady’s meanderings do in fact add an extra thirty seconds to her journey.
What a grueling two and a half minutes this has been.
Sherpa blanket, here she comes.