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The Last Bus on Marrow Street
dramaEveryone6 contributors · 1 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.
What happens next?
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A possible continuation
I pull up at the next light. Turn around? For what? But I do. U-turn. I drive back to Elm and Third. She's still there. Waiting. Her hand doesn't go up. Her eyes just... watch. She knows I came back.
AO
Amara Okafor
8 votes · future 1 of 3