The Stuttering Clock

It wasn’t the first time Mrs. Gable had shown up with that particular shade of fluster. Her hat, a wide-brimmed affair patterned with artificial marigolds, seemed to vibrate slightly on her head, betraying a nervous energy she usually kept well-hidden beneath layers of polite indifference. My own internal clock, calibrated by years of bus-stop vigils, told me the Number Seven was, as usual, behind schedule. The digital display, a fickle god, still stubbornly read '20 PAST'.

"Are you quite alright, Mrs. Gable?" I asked, my voice cutting through the distant drone of city traffic. She jumped, a small, startled sound like a dry twig snapping.

"Oh! Good heavens, dear. Didn't see you there. Just… these schedules, aren't they a beast?" Her hand, gnarled with age, clutched at the strap of a floral handbag. Her knuckles were white.

"They certainly have a mind of their own," I agreed, offering a small, sympathetic smile. "Running a bit behind, I gather."

She scoffed, a short, sharp expulsion of air. "Behind? It’s not just behind, dear, it’s… inconsistent. One day it’s early, the next it’s late. How’s a body supposed to plan?"

I watched her, a familiar tableau. Mrs. Gable, a permanent fixture of this stop, usually radiated a quiet, almost regal patience. Today, however, she seemed to be vibrating with an internal tremor, her gaze darting from the empty road to the bus shelter's digital clock, then back to the road, as if expecting the bus to materialise from thin air.

The Weight of Minutes

Liam, the university student whose headphones were practically a second skin, ambled up, settling onto the bench furthest from us. He offered a non-committal nod, his eyes already fixed on a textbook, oblivious to the small drama unfolding. I envied his ability to insulate himself. For me, the bus stop was a theatre, albeit one with an incredibly slow plot development.

"Is there a particular reason you're so concerned about the time today?" I ventured, trying to keep my tone light. A nosy question, perhaps, but Mrs. Gable and I had shared enough bus waits over the years to have a certain casual intimacy.

Her gaze finally settled on me, a flash of something akin to panic in her usually placid blue eyes. "My… my geraniums. They need watering. And a certain… visitor… is due. Can't have them thinking I'm not a prompt hostess, can I?"

A certain visitor. Not her usual vague references to 'the market' or 'the chemist'. This was something different. The geraniums were a weak cover, a flimsy veil over a deeper anxiety. I imagined a stern-faced relative, perhaps, or a new neighbour she was desperate to impress. The things people worried about. For me, it was usually just missing the last episode of that dreadful detective show.

"I'm sure they won't mind a few minutes' delay," I reassured her, though the words felt hollow. Her agitation was infectious. Now even I was starting to feel the phantom pressure of an impending, unquantifiable doom.

The Number Seven eventually rounded the corner, its diesel engine groaning a familiar lament. It was indeed twenty-three past. The digital clock, stubbornly stuck at '20 PAST', blinked a final time before going dark entirely. Poetic, I thought. Or just broken. The bus hissed to a stop, its doors folding open with a pneumatic sigh. Liam, roused from his academic slumber, gathered his backpack and ambled aboard.

Mrs. Gable, however, didn't move. She stood there, frozen, her grip on her handbag tighter than ever, her eyes wide. The bus driver, a young woman with vibrant blue streaks in her hair, peered out, a hint of impatience in her expression.

"Madam? Boarding?" she called out, her voice slightly muffled.

Mrs. Gable took a hesitant step, then another. Her eyes flickered to me, then back to the open bus doors. It was as if she was debating an impossible choice, a cosmic coin flip where both sides meant disaster.

"Go on, Mrs. Gable," I urged softly. "Your geraniums await."

A faint, almost imperceptible shake of her head. A soft, desperate whisper, "I can't. Not yet."

The driver sighed, a theatrical puff of air. "Last call, madam."

Mrs. Gable just stood there, a statue of indecision, the marigolds on her hat drooping slightly, as if sharing her weariness. The bus driver, after another moment, simply closed the doors. With a final, weary sigh of its air brakes, the Number Seven pulled away, leaving Mrs. Gable and me alone once more.

"My word," I murmured. "Was that truly for the geraniums?"

She stared at the receding bus, her face unreadable. The silence stretched, thick and heavy, punctuated only by the distant hum of traffic and the persistent pecking of the pigeon.

"Sometimes," she said, her voice barely a whisper, "the anticipation is the only part that feels real."

And then she turned, a faint, almost ghost-like smile on her lips, and walked away from the bus stop, not towards her home, but in the opposite direction, towards the park where the old oak trees stood, casting long shadows in the fading light.

My own bus, the Number Ten, was due any minute. But now, the thought of its arrival felt strangely irrelevant.