Something always told him it was bad to travel during Spring or Winter. He caught himself stranded at a crowded bus station in Chicago, his transfer bus to Louisville delayed because of a tropical storm that managed to make its way that far up north. While outside it rained relentlessly, he could hear every last drop and crack of thunder in the bathroom stall where he took some time to treasure his refuge from the crowded refuge of the bus station outside; everyone’s bus delayed, everyone soaking wet crowded and close together.
He decided to stay just until his jacket hanging on the inside of the closed stall door dried. It was the last in a long row of red painted stalls that stood out for the loud hum and flicker of the florescent bulb over it. It really did it when lightning happened to strike, at which point he was often sure it would pop right over his head, and if not, definitely the next time. There were maybe six next times before his jacket dried to his satisfaction and he finally decided to step outside into the crowd.
The first thing he saw didn’t surprise him; all seats were taken. The next thing he noticed was that all the television screens were blank. The next thing he noticed was exactly how many people there actually were. They seemed to have doubled from when he walked into the bathroom, and he could barely see through them to where he would go if there was any place in particular he wanted to go. There were people sitting in lines behind the doors of their gates and others laid out across the benches. He tried walking through them; perhaps maybe he’d find one piece of dry ground. The people all seemed faceless, none of them looked at each other, no one really talking; they seemed to float the wet tiled floors like ghosts in cheap clothing. It was displeasure to brush against their wet coats and smell their musk accumulated from a bad combination of humidity and travel.
A voice seemed to pop from under their quiet.
“Hey asshole,”
He paid it no mind, the voice was vaguely familiar but he knew nobody in Chicago. A hand grabbed his right shoulder and he obediently followed. And then he saw her. She was wearing a black jacket and pink sweatpants. The dense crow forced them in close contact against their will.
“I said hey, you asshole!”
She was smiling because he was familiar to her, as her to him.
“Now don’t tell me you’ve forgot your own name already.”
“Where are you living now?”
“With myself.”
“Where?”
“So, where are you headed asshole?”
“To be by myself.”
“Don’t give me that, you’re headed to Louisville, arntcha?”
He gave her a look before responding.
“Sure.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? Are you going or not?
He paid her little mind. At this point his attention was more so toward a man half asleep in a small puddle of water by their feet. And he looked up and it seemed as if the crowd had eased up a bit around them.
“You’re still the same you know.”
“What’s that mean?”
“A huge, quiet, smart-ass asshole.”
“What are you doing here? I didn’t see you on the bus.”
“Neither did I, but yet here I am, weird huh?
A crash of thunder muffled her laughter.
Behind him he saw that the television screen behind him had switched on. It was on a news report telling of fatalities from the storm; there was a picture available for one of the victims and it turned out to be hers, or at least looked an awful lot like her. When he turned to face her he saw nothing, the people had gone; all seats were empty, the lines clear, no buses, the puddle below his feet was now a slightly bigger puddle. From across the station he heard her again.
“Psssst.”
It echoed maybe five times. He saw her blow him a kiss and walk through the doors with no umbrella, shortly after the storm became worse, and worse, and worse.
