Twenty-Three Minutes

The bus is twenty minutes late. The sign says three, and has said three for twenty minutes.

You stamp your feet. I blow into my hands, which does nothing and never has.

"In French we say j'ai froid. I have cold."

"We say you are cold."

"So you become it."

"Apparently."

You laugh and it comes out visible.

We get into whether waiting counts as doing something. You say yes. I say the bus doesn't care either way. You have a whole position on this, worked out well in advance, which makes me think you take this bus a lot.

A taxi goes by with the light on. Either of us could have put a hand up. Neither of us does, and then it's gone, and we don't mention it.

Twenty-three minutes. The bus comes in with its wipers going and the destination sign wrong.

We get on. You sit near the front, I go back, because that's what you do, and by Papineau you're on your phone and I'm at the window and it's over.

You get off at Mont-Royal without looking back down the aisle. The doors close. The cold comes in and goes out again.