A Place to Wait

It was so terribly cold. Snow was falling, and it was almost dark, the kind of dark that arrives early and settles in like it plans to stay. The sky had that dull, colorless look, neither black nor blue, just heavy, as if it were pressing down on the city. Snowflakes drifted down slowly, unhurried, as if they had nowhere else to be, each one spinning lazily before disappearing into the ground or the folds of someone’s coat.

Jennifer stood at the bus stop with her hands buried in the pockets of a coat that had lost its warmth years ago. The fabric was stiff with age, the lining thin at the elbows, shiny from wear. The zipper stuck halfway unless you coaxed it just right, and one pocket had a small tear near the seam. She always meant to sew it. She never did. She hunched her shoulders anyway, as if posture alone could trap heat, as if curling inward could make her smaller, easier for the cold to miss. Her breath came out in short white bursts that vanished before she could follow them with her eyes.

The bench beside her was dusted with snow, untouched, the metal slats too cold to invite sitting. The streetlight above flickered like it was thinking about giving up. Each blink made the shadows jump, stretching and shrinking the shapes of the bench and the snow-covered trash can nearby. Cars passed without slowing, their tires hissing through slush, spraying dirty water onto the curb. None of it reached her, but she flinched anyway, instinctively pulling back. Somewhere a door slammed, and the sound echoed longer than it should have, hollow and lonely, like the street itself was listening. A radio played faintly from an apartment window above the laundromat, the song muffled and warped by the cold. She recognized the tune but couldn’t remember the words, just the feeling of having heard it a hundred times before.

She checked the time on her phone, though she already knew it was late. The last bus always came late. The battery icon was red, the screen dimmer than usual, and a thin crack ran from one corner where she’d dropped it months ago, rushing to catch a different bus on a different night. She slipped it back into her pocket before the cold could steal any more life from it. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, toes aching, boots stiff with salt. Her calves burned in that dull, deep way that meant they’d been cold too long, a warning that she tried to ignore.

She thought of the soup cooling on her stove at home. The cheap kind with noodles that soak up too much broth if you don’t watch them. She’d added a little extra water this time, trying to stretch it, and left it on the lowest heat she dared. She pictured the small kitchen, the chipped counter, the drawer that stuck if you pulled it too fast. The light she always forgot to turn off above the sink would be glowing, casting that yellow circle on the linoleum. She hoped the pot hadn’t boiled dry. She hoped the smoke detector wouldn’t be screaming when she opened the door. She hoped, in a vague way, that something would be easy for once.

She had meant to call her sister before leaving work. All day she’d rehearsed the conversation in her head, different openings, different endings. Maybe she’d start casual. Maybe she’d just ask how things were going. Maybe she’d finally say the part she always swallowed back, the part that felt too heavy for a phone line. But the shift ended messy and loud. Someone spilled a tray. Someone else cried in the break room, face red and blotchy. The manager snapped about schedules and overtime, about things that mattered only until the next shift started. By the time Jennifer clocked out, her head felt full of static. Then there was the walk, and then there was the cold, and suddenly calling felt like one more thing she couldn’t carry.

A man shuffled up beside her, stamping his feet hard against the pavement, trying to wake them up. He smelled faintly of cigarettes and peppermint, an odd mix that reminded her of her father when he still smoked but tried to hide it. They nodded at each other, a small agreement to share the wait without talking. His coat was even thinner than hers, the cuffs frayed. He kept tapping the side of his leg with two fingers, fast, then slower, then stopping altogether, like he was trying to remember a rhythm and losing it. Snow gathered on the brim of his hat, then slid off when he shook his head. He muttered something under his breath, maybe a complaint, maybe a joke meant only for himself. Jennifer wondered where he was headed, what kind of room he’d walk into at the end of the line.

She brushed flakes from her eyelashes and laughed once, quietly, at nothing. The sound surprised her, thin but real. It felt like proof she was still there, still capable of making noise in the world, even if no one was listening.

More snow settled on her shoulders, melting and seeping into the fabric. Her nose burned, then went numb. She wondered, not for the first time, how many evenings she’d stood right here, counting headlights, convincing herself she wasn’t as tired as she felt. She remembered waiting here in the rain, in the heat, in the thick air of late summer when the bus stop smelled like hot asphalt and spilled soda. This corner had seen her in every season, watched her age in small, unremarkable ways. The streetlight buzzed, steadied, flickered again, stubborn in its own tired way.

At last, headlights appeared at the far end of the street, brighter and closer than the rest. The bus. Its shape emerged slowly from the snow, solid and unmistakable. The man straightened. Jennifer felt something in her chest loosen, a small knot easing without her permission. The bus slowed, groaning as it pulled up, and the doors opened with a tired sigh. Warm air spilled out, fogging her glasses and softening the sharp edge of the night.

She stepped inside, paid her fare with numb fingers, and took a seat by the window. The vinyl was cracked, patched with tape in one spot, but it was warm. She held her hands over the vent for a moment, letting the heat sting as feeling came back. The man sat a few rows ahead, already staring forward, already somewhere else. As the bus pulled away, Jennifer watched the streetlight fade behind them, shrinking until it was just another weak glow swallowed by snow.

The cold stayed outside. Inside, the windows rattled, the heater groaned, and the bus rocked gently as it moved through the city. Street after street slid past, familiar and blurred, storefronts dark or half-lit, reflections stretching across the glass. A woman across the aisle hummed softly to herself, off-key but steady. Someone coughed in the back. The smell of wet coats and melting snow filled the air, oddly comforting.

Jennifer leaned her head against the glass, letting the warmth seep back into her fingers. Her thoughts slowed, unspooling without urgency. The soup would be fine, she told herself. The call could wait another day. Tomorrow was always waiting anyway. The city kept moving, carrying her along with it, stop by stop. For the length of the ride, with the snow kept at bay and the heat humming around her, that was enough.