The Bus Driver Who Waited for the Runner

There is a woman who runs for the 7:42. Not every morning — four out of five, on average, and always the same way: around the corner by the postbox, bag across her body, one hand up in a gesture that is half apology and half request, though nobody on the bus has ever agreed what it means.

The driver sees her in the mirror before she comes round the corner, because he has learned which second to look. He does not open the doors early, which would be against the rules, and he does not pull away, which would be within them. He simply finds something to check on the ticket machine for eleven seconds, roughly four mornings a week.

Nobody has ever discussed this. She has never thanked him for it, because thanking him would mean naming it, and naming it would make it a favour rather than the weather. She gets on, breathing hard, taps her card, and says good morning in the same voice as everybody else.

The regulars at the front know. The man in the third seat has been observed checking his watch at 7:42 and then putting it away again without comment, four mornings a week, for two and a half years.