"Bus Stop at Night" by Tim Lieder (Fiction Extra)

The redhead looked at Scotty as if he had just pooped in her handbag.

I’m still working on the next John Cheever article. It’s for “The Children” which is like Pot of Gold but much funnier and messier. Only this week I got a bunch of jobs. Those college students must have learned that their professors can now detect AI (aka plagiarism software) all at once. Very exhausting week. Anyhow this short story was originally published in “Fusing Horizons” and I think that was a zine so I could probably sell first rights again since I don’t know if you can even find it in the wild. That said, I like this story much better than I thought I would. I do enjoy playing with limited perspective and I manage to balance it nicely.

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They stood in the Frank Lloyd Wright bus stop with glass stretching to the sky and metal benches that no one could sit on. The library was behind them. Past the pavement, well-behaved trees stood sentry. Nothing would crawl from these trees.

Waiting passengers could see a bar glowing blue neon, same as the night before. At closing time, the drink specials ended. The bar patrons were exclusively blond and tan, wearing the fraternity fashions. They left in small bands as mosquitoes swarmed around them.

The bus stop people avoided conversation. Anonymous to everyone - some read magazines; some read newspapers. A large man was reading an old science fiction book with a spaceship cover. Humidity stuck clothes to skin.

“How do you get to the … the 5^th street transit station?” asked a small man, directing his question at a woman with red hair and a black trench coat.

Many told the redhead with the freckles that she was beautiful. They always wanted something but she enjoyed the compliments. Older women claimed to have had her figure before children and osteoporosis.

The man was African with an accent, small and ragged. The redhead noticed his teeth first. His hair was vanishing. She saw cheekbones. When college boys saw him talking to her, they assumed that he was trying to pick her up. They felt sorrow for his plight.

“No,” she said, as if the collective disdain of the bus stop was speaking through her, confused that he hadn’t gone away. He should have mumbled an apology for bothering her unless he was going to be a problem.

“I’m supposed to meet a friend at the 5^th street station. I think I missed him.”

“I think it’s five blocks that way.”

“I just came from there.”

“Sorry," she said, "I can’t help you.”

She tried smiling but it was an off-smile. Scotty, a muscular blond who thought of himself as a bro, guy or dude but never a man, laughed at the poor guy.