The first chill day of Autumn. Under a gray, threatening sky, he waits for the bus wondering whether he should have worn an overcoat. The bus is nowhere in sight. Late again, he keeps hoping it will just appear so he can get going. He should have left the house earlier. Day after day he misses the early bus, catches the next one, and gets to work, a little late.
On the bus, with a good natured smile, he takes a questionnaires from the driver with no intention of ever filling it out. The bus is nearly empty and he takes a seat toward the back. An old, street person gets on and engages the driver in a loud conversation about the questionnaire. The quiet morning ride in finished.
Several stops later, the bus is nearly full. A smartly dressed woman gets on and sits next to him. Her wool jacket smells like mothballs.
“Of course it does,” he thinks, “It’s the first chilly day of Autumn.”
copyright 2016 Christopher Donahue