Bus Stop

I watched him alight from the bus and blink several times. A quizzical frown rose up and he smiled as he glanced around Cardigan’s own little Finch Square. Buses drove past, not as often as the locals would like of course, but they came and they went as buses do. The people came and went too.

I was sat on one of the benches outside the newspaper shop with a bottle of Coke in one hand and Simon’s hand in the other. Browning leaves blew up as I swung my feet. We watched that young man carefully and both jerked forwards, hands outstretched as if to warn him when his striped scarf almost blew away. He had a quick reaction then.

I was wiping the spilled Coke from my jeans when Simon whispered, ‘Look, he’s . . .’

I looked up and saw a moment people see all the time, that people experience all the time. The young man was walking towards the row of benches, to one just to the left of us. As discreetly as curious couples can, we glanced from the corner of our eyes. A young lady sat, with her light hair hanging over one shoulder, striped gloves folded neatly on her crossed legs. Our eyes met for an instant and she graced us with a half smile, then rose to meet the young man, stepping lightly into his outstretched arms.