While Waiting for the Bus
Late October in London has a feel all its own. The air is crisp, redolent with fallen leaves and a hint of the first frost. On such a night, Emily, wrapped in a massive tartan scarf, shifted from foot to foot at the bus stop, watching the shuffling stream of cars with a longing sigh. Her phone sat stubborn and silent in her hand, refusing to find a signal, while the jingle from last nights TV drama looped endlessly in her mind. Shed missed the bus again. Always did.
Someone else was there as well. A young man. She spotted him from the corner of her eye: hands stuffed in the pockets of his overcoat, tall and straight, his gaze steady and more searching than lost. He wasnt watching the road, but instead fixed on a magpies nest high in a stark sycamore across the street. Curiosity drew Emilys eyes there too, where fidgety birds flitted, ferrying last twigs to line their home against oncoming winter.
They must get stuck in traffic jams too, the man said suddenly, his tone even, calm, not looking her way. And I bet theres always one magpie who turns up late.
A short, surprised laugh escaped Emily. Genuine, involuntary.
And always loses her beak down a tunnel, she quipped.
Finally, he turned and smileda warm, inviting grin.
James.
Emily.
The bus didnt come. They lingered in the hush, but now it was a shared silence, companionable rather than lonely. When at last her bus arrived, she reached for the door with a trace of regret.
Might be a frost tomorrow, he called softly after her.
Yeaha thermos of tea will be needed, she replied over her shoulder, stepping inside.
It was that tomorrow that saw them again at the stop. No plans. No texts. Just synchronicity. She carried a thermos full of green tea. He offered her a tiny paper bag holding two miniature éclairs.
For emergenciesshould culture run low, he explained with feigned gravity.
So began their waiting. No proper dates, just these accidental meetings at 6:30 p.m., if both were running late after work. Sometimes the bus was on time, and they squeezed in only a few words. Sometimes the wait dragged to half an hour, and conversations unfurledsilly bosses, strange dreams, how pineapple pizza is a culinary crime (united on this front), and which music fits an autumn evening best (they argued over this one).
Then, one evening, James didnt show. Nor the next. Emily found her gaze pulled not to the road, but to the now-empty magpies nest. The emptiness of it settled in her chest too, unusual and unsettling.
Nearly a week later, by early November, he was back at his usual spot. He looked drawn, the skin under his eyes shadowed.
My dadhe was in hospital, he muttered. Hes alright now, thank God.
They stood together without words. After a moment, she slipped her hand into his. He tensed, but didnt pull away. His fingers were freezing cold. She wrapped them in her warm palm.
Lets skip the bus today, Emily whispered. Lets go for hot chocolate. With a proper froth. And two éclairs, split between us.
That was the turning point.
From then, their habits shifted. They didnt just wait. They strolled, winding their way to that cosy little patisserie off the High Street, thick with the scent of vanilla and cinnamon.
At first, their chats were light, sweet. But soon, their words dug deeper, as if, freed from the urgency of catching buses, they could finally afford to really see each other.
Beneath Jamess calm, Emily discovered an entire world. He was more than a structural engineerhe designed bridges and talked about them as if alive, each with its own personality.
That one over the Old Thames, he once said, drawing patterns in the steam on the window, Hes ancient. Stubborn. Hates lorries rumbling over himgroans every time. The new one on the bypass, thoughsuch a youngster. Still figuring out the load.
Emilys eyes sparkled as she listened; she heard poetry in concrete and calculations. And what about the bridge where we stand at the bus stop? she asked. He pondered. A dreamer. Built for strolls and quiet chats.
In return, Emily revealed she wasnt simply a girl who wrote stuff for her blogshe was a seeker of invisible threads. Walking with James, shed invent stories aloud:
Smell that? Sorrel soup from the open window three doors up. Means Mrs. Banks lives thereshe always cooks it on Tuesdays. And listen to the upstairs musictheyre learning Für Elise. Always get stuck at the same place.
James, used to seeing the world as blueprints and numbers, started to pay attention. Suddenly, the city was rich with new sounds, colours, scents. He noticed the curtains in the houses they passed, pointed out interesting patterns.
They started visiting each others flats. James marvelled at the chaos of Emilys worktable: a riot of books, sticky notes, her signature blue mug of wilted tea leaves. He tried ginger biscuitsfresh, crumblyand discovered home-baked wasnt just an idea, but a flavour all its own.
Emily explored Jamess minimalist flat, flooded with sun from wide windows. There, she uncovered an old photo album. In one picture, his dad, young and steady-eyed, fixed a towering clock, while a serious little James watched in awe.
He taught me the most important thing, James said quietly, looking at the photo. Every complicated system is a bundle of simple parts. If it breaks, you dont panicyou just look for the bit thats gone and fix it.
Is that about the clock? Emily asked.
And about life, he grinned.
They werent trying to impress. They peeled away the layers, like the leaves of an onion, and found something open, genuine. Emily admitted she wrote poems she showed no oneas they were far too naïve. James, flushing, confessed hed once joined a uni poetry club, but grew out of it.
Winter deepened, and one day Emily fell ill: not badly, but enough for a fever and a stuffy nose. James arrived wordlessly after work, arms full of supplies: lemons, honey, herbal teas, and the latest verse collection by the poet shed idly mentioned once.
I didnt know what youd need, he fumbled, standing awkwardly on her doorstep. So I brought everything to fix the system.
Bundled in her blanket, nose red, Emily laughed until tears welled up. Then she really criedfrom gratitude. Because someone was finally seeing her tiredness instead of just her cheer, and was unafraid of it.
Step by step, they stopped being that chap from the bus stop and the girl with the scarf. He became James, who knew she only drank tea from a blue mug. She became Emily, who understood his silences were just him putting his thoughts in order.
They were no longer just romantic partners, but a safe harbour in the sprawling, not always gentle city. A home to return toeven if it meant missing a few buses.
A year passed. One year, two months since their first encounter. One evening, over dinner in their favourite patisserie, James grew uncharacteristically quiet.
Em, he began, eyes lingering on his hands. Ive got a favour to ask, but you dont need to answer straight away.
She stilled, spoon poised.
Its just My great-grandmother lives in a little village in Yorkshire. Every Christmas, she waits for me. Theres the stone cottage, proper snowdrifts, that kind of hush you can feel in your bones and shes desperate for me to finally bring the girl I always talk about on the phone. He looked up, wary. Its not a spa hotel, the Wi-Fi only works up by the post box, the geese are, frankly, menaces Honestly, youre free to say no.
Emily looked at him. Her eyes lit up like fairy lights.
Geese? she deadpanned.
Very loud ones.
And is the snow deep? Truly deep?
Up to your waist. Squeaks like old records underfoot.
Does your great-gran have a real old Aga?
Centrepiece of the house, he nodded, hope leaking through his caution.
Well, Im packing my bags then, Emily declared, her smile erupting. Send me a packing list and safety tips for the local wildlife.
The Yorkshire village proved richer than any promise. The air was sweet, the cottage warm. Great-Gran Violet, sprightly and sharp, adopted Emily at oncefed her crumpets with honey, loaned her a vast shearling coat, and sent her off to the wood with James in search of a Christmas tree.
Their New Years Eve spread groaned with hearty, simple dishes. At the first chiming of Big Ben, they clinked flutes of Champagne. Great-Gran toasted to the young, and with a sly wink left them alone at the glowing table.
After she slipped away, there was a hushonly the crackle of logs in the Aga and the faint blink of baubles on the little tree in the corner. It felt as if London and the rest of the world had faded away, leaving only this tiny universe.
James rose and poked at the fire, then turned to Emily, who was cradling her glass at the table.
You know, he began, voice roughened by nerves, when we trudged through the snow for the tree this morning, you in Grans coat, your nose all red, laughing There, for the first time, I knew. Absolutely.
Knew what? Emily smiled, heart fluttering.
That thishe gestured, voice tremblingthis is my happiness now. You, here, your laughter in the cold. No city, no bridge, no job is better.
He knelt before her. Fished a velvet box from his thick jumper. Took her hand. His fingers were warm now, but shivered with feeling.
Emily. Woman of the bus stop, who showed me how to see. Will you marry me? Build our future togetherwith room for your chaos and my sketches, for Grans crumpets, and for everything, really?
Emily gazed at him. Tears sprang, but her smile brimmed with joy. She saw not just love, but deep, unwavering devotion in his eyes: the kind, hed once said, that keeps bridges standing.
Yes, she breatheda word that sounded like a vow and a release all at once. Yes, James. Of course.
He slid the ring on her finger. It fit perfectly, as if it had always been hers. As he rose to embrace her, distant fireworks blossomed outside, their colours reflected in frosty panes and in the eyes of two people who finally looked the same way.
Inside that cottage, the glow was steadythis was real happiness, not flickering promise. Solid, like the ring, like the simple, beautiful word yes.
Their story, born of a chilly autumn evening at a London bus stop, had led them hereto a winters tale, fireside warmth, and the knowledge that no matter what lay ahead, theyd cross every bridge together.
Because the most important connection in their lives had been made. It beat in sync with their two hearts, found at just the right moment. Simply because, one evening, both of them missed the bus.
