The morning bus comes around 6 am. The sign posted near the stop says 5:50, but it is always late. So, a dozen people stand under the growing heat of a weekday morning waiting impatiently for the opportunity to load up and be taken to jobs that they’d rather not be working. Some of them realize that the jobs they have are an opportunity to live and afford some of the things they want, even if they cannot afford most of the things they want. Others, like Jazzie would rather not work. Samuel considered that as he walked towards the bus stop watching a sea of familiar faces hanging low, distracted by their phones or watching the traffic zip by. Jazzie was not there again. He hadn’t seen her in three days.
It used to be that they’d walk out of the apartment complex together, or at least nearabouts. The truth was Jazzie barely seemed to realize he was walking behind her as they stepped past the gates, either racing across the street under the warning of a crossing light counting down to zero, or waiting because they’d both timed it wrong and knew it would be another 5 minutes at least before the walk sign clicked white again.
He’d never spoken to Jazzie. Once he tried, mangling a muttered combination of “hey” “whats up” and “How are you” into something that sounded closer to a dogs growl. She turned briefly, her dark hair spilling across her eyes before she raked it back cooly with one hand. She regarded him with a look of curiosity that evaporated instantly as the light shifted to green and the walk sign blared out it’s short cadence. He never tried speaking to her after that.