It seems to be ridiculous when you think of it. Passed the trash-bin, where “God bless you” appears written in white letters on its top, the couple gets lost towards the infinite; towards the horizon of another street. Between the trees along the sidewalk a car drives from the opposite direction unveiling two silhouettes that hold hands. They are far away now. Maybe driving away in a cab because it would take too long to wait for the bus. Another possibility bares them walking, simply that, as they get lost in themselves beneath the dark blue cover pierced by cigarettes. One could even presume that the story has other proportions. That they had decided to come to this place, the bus stop, to spend their last hour together. She is flying away across Greenwich but he has to take the route south over the Ecuator. Maybe the bus stop was the roof above the benches in a baseball stadium two hours down from DC. Somebody could have been witness of that moment, even if he did not notice what was going on. They were looking at themselves in each other's eyes, what mattered if the man wanted to smoke a joint by the benches, what mattered if he was welcomed or not. What he did not know was that he did not matter. They were there only for each other and themselves, to disregard what fate brought upon them, to disrespect completely an uncertain future. A couple of shooting stars, no clocks, and a while of silence painted that night spoon-fed by an accomplice context. That night, they learned in silence not to utter excuses for the night itself became a promise to the eyes of the stars.
Back at the bus stop the prostitutes from the corner, that had been driven away minutes before the writer wrote his memories in fiction, returned from business only to step into a van with dark windows. He gets paranoid at the sight of a potential, definitely certain, thief-like character that glanced over his shoulder directly into his eyes. Following the rounds traced by the footprints of this uninvited guest, the threat disappears behind a monument. It is then when from inside a Volkswagen two mini skirts come out dancing to the tunes of a cold autumn night that made them shiver.
Two voices are heard across the plastic, and illuminated for publicities, side wall of the bus stop.
_You've got to open your head.
_I have no certainty, no security.
The bus comes, but its another bus.
_You have to let her know and make her respect that!
_It's pf my convenience to keep my mouth shut if I want to keep on cooking.
The voices get lost and decrease in volume while the light of the side of the bus stop starts to flicker intermittently, shutting down as the discussion on the opposite corner is lit up simultaneously. A couple of buses drive by but none of them is the writer's bus. Many faces defy the silence of the night, but none of them is a familiar one.
The discussion moves from the opposite corner towards the bus stop.
_When it's for you let it be for you.
Three taxis drive by.
_(the same voice is heard while the other one refutes unintelligibly) Come on Pelado, can't I tell you that?
The arguing subsides and the two characters sit behind the bus stop on a white ledge. A couple of meters right and behind the benches at the stop, the writer's eyes follow the onset of their departure. Two taxis that drive by escort them outside the reach of his glance. One could presume that story has other proportions.
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