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The Last Bus on Marrow Street
dramaEveryone6 contributors · 2 paragraphs deep
Thirty-one winters I've driven the 9:40 down Marrow Street. Tonight's my first of seven last nights. The city's killing this route. Killing the job. Sleet hammers the windshield. At Elm and Third, I see her—old woman in a red coat, running, hand out. I'm already past her. She stands there soaked, watching the bus fade into dark.
A woman boards at the next stop. Young. Soaked. Broken umbrella. She sits two rows back. 'Driver, did you see anyone trying to catch this bus? Around Elm Street?' My stomach drops. How does she know?
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She shows me her phone. Photo of an old woman. Red coat. Smiling. 'My grandmother. She was supposed to pick me up. She loves this route. She rides it every winter.' Past tense. Loves. 'Was?'
ED
Elif Demir
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