Someone and the Stranger

"I have a story to tell."

The bench is cold as glass and the fog strings its way across the street,

an engulfing mass of smokey water.

The bus is late.

A glance at the other person on the bench. They smile. 

Tap the watch on their hand.

Stranger. Don't talk to strangers. A crowd of strangers is only good for hiding, not for talking.

There is only one Stranger now.

The bus is late.

"I have a story to tell."

"Okay."

"My mother moved on today."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. She was in pain. And then she wasn't. She looked happy, to be painless again."

"I'm still sorry."

"Why?"

"Cause you don't have her anymore."

"I wouldn't want her if she was in pain."

The silence sits. The bus is late.

"Doesn't mean it doesn't hurt."

"Yes. I suppose. Thank you."

"For what?"

"For listening to my story."

"It wasn't much of a story."

"It was all I had. There isn't much more to tell."

The bus is late.

"Well, you've got a new addition, I'd guess."

"To what?"

"Your story."

"What's been added?"

"This conversation. The bus ride wherever. Your mother's funeral. All of it. It's been added or it's going to be."

The bus makes a noise when it pulls in. A handshake. The Stranger stays sitting as the bus is boarded.

"Good luck with the rest of your story, stranger."

"You too."

"Thank you."

The bus pulls away.

The Stranger, who didn't get on the bus, sits there. Someone was sitting next to them once. A pen, a paper left where the Someone was.

I have a story to tell, thinks the Stranger.

They take the pen, the paper. 

They'll catch the next bus.