Love at the Last Dry Bus Stop

How it begins

The bus shelter was dry enough for one person, and James Green had apparently arrived as the entire population.

He stood beside two folded camping chairs, a box of wristbands, and a kettle nobody had found electricity for.

Marion Bell stopped at the edge of the roof.

"Could you move the kettle?"

"It's holding the timetable down."

"The timetable says a bus came twenty minutes ago. Perhaps it could stop pretending."

Rain hammered the valley road. Beyond the shelter, the canceled music festival sagged behind its fences. Marion had spent three days keeping six pianos in tune while the weather argued for percussion.

Now her tools were in a waterproof case, her hotel booking had expired, and the next reliable train left from a town she could not currently reach.

James shifted the wristbands and made room.

"Campsite manager," he said, as though admitting a minor offense.

"Piano technician."

"That explains the expression."

"It explains several expressions. This one is about the kettle."

He moved it onto his lap.

A young sound assistant arrived carrying a speaker beneath a coat. Behind her came a woman with a walking stick and a festival volunteer whose face had gone past cheerful into dangerously polite.

Marion looked at the shelter's narrow bench.

James looked at his camping chairs.

Without discussing it, they unfolded both.

The sound assistant sat, the woman rested her leg, and the volunteer finally admitted he did not know when any transport was coming.

James took out his phone.

"Then we find out before we promise anything."

Marion liked the sentence. She was tired of people offering certainty when what they actually had was a louder voice.

She opened the lid of her tool case and moved its dry cloths toward the wet speaker.

On the road, a bus appeared through the rain, going the opposite way.

Everyone watched it pass.

James held the kettle very carefully and said, "I suppose we're getting to know one another first."