its late, she texts from the metal bench inside the bus shelter.

He leans against the outside of the bus shelter, the cool metal feeling good in the afternoon sun. yep, he texts.

not the bus, she texts, stylish dreadlocks bobbing in time with her thumbs jabbing the cell phone screen.

? he texts, running a hand absent mindedly over his own dreads.

? he repeats when she doesn’t reply. He looks at her, not a foot away, head bent to reveal the curve of her neck that brings back memories of last night. He smiles.

not the bus, she texts. She looks up, expression unreadable behind sunglasses tipped just so on her diamond studded nose.

He shakes his head, frowning at his reflection in her sunglasses.

She keys something.

The cell vibrates against his palm.

Their bus arrives, five minutes late.

She gets on.

He follows.

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