Bus Report #1062

Waited at the bus stop for a bus that wasn't coming. The skateboard kid and I had been there for ten minutes already.
"This is weak," he said, and then he made a phone call and skated away.

The Frenchman walked over, fresh from his shower. His hair was still wet and he smelled minty.
"You must be late," I said.
He shook his head. "Maybe, or maybe you are."
We caught up for a moment, discussed his trip to Southern California.
Across the street, a familiar figure smiled and waved. It was Olga. I haven't seen her in forever and I was beyond glad to see she was up and about, well coiffed and dressed as always.

Even though she was leaning heavily on her cane, she hurried over and greeted us.
She said good morning to me in Russian, then in English, and I responded in Russian as she'd taught me. The Frenchman just laughed.

Olga patted my arm, and I patted hers, told her it was great to see her.
She pointed to the large brooch on my coat, in the shape of a bug, that I wear sometimes.
"I like," she said, touching the enameled metal with her finger.

The three of us wondered where the bus was. And then Olga gestured up the block. "Three three," she said. I couldn't see anything and neither could Alain.

But, as always, Olga was right. The bus soon arrived and we all climbed in.
I patted her shoulder again as I went to sit down.
"Do svedanya," she said.