He gestures to me, although we are only a few feet apart.
I take a conciliatory step in his direction.
"Does the 62 still run?" he asks. He has just finished a cigarette,
so he must have been waiting for some time.
"It should," I say,
and go back to leaning against the bus shelter.
When we board, I move to the back
while he settles into a handicap seat,
this man who waited too long for the 62.
We keep looking at each other over heads,
pretending to see passing lights and buildings,
always catching the other's glance flit by.
He knows so much about me now:
I work in Brighton Park, or live here, or know someone who does.
I appear to be fluent in English, and not crazy.
I wear t-shirts sometimes, sometimes with jeans.
I am conciliatory. I know when the 62 runs.
I wear glasses. My eyes are blue.