Better Than A Bus

By Barb DeMoney

Trying to hustle out the door, it's 6:59AM. I'm running late again—and I’ve already received two warnings this month.

Dang it, where’s my briefcase?

There it is… tucked under a blanket. I grab it and fly down the stairs.

Racing to the bus stop, I bump brusquely into someone. She stumbles backwards.

The rest of the morning falls away. The bus, my job, all of it… gone, replaced by a set of dimples I can’t look away from, and I realize I've forgotten why I was rushing.

“S-sorry,”

“Is that your bus pulling away?”

I turn. “Ugh! I'm gonna lose my job.”

“Where do you work?”

“At the Department of Housing, on Main.”

“This might sound sketchy, but I can drive you. I'm down the road at H&R Block.” She smiles, as if offering rides to frantic strangers was the norm.

“Come on,” she says, gesturing toward a small blue car. “I promise it'll be better than riding the bus.”

I hesitate. My brain is busy panicking about being late, but finally manages to speak up. Maybe this isn't a great idea.

As the bus pulls away, I realize this might be my only option if I want to keep my job.

She’s waiting, relaxed, like this isn’t strange at all.

“I’m Claire,” she says as we reach her car.

“Daniel.”

Claire pulls out too quickly, hopping the curb, and then giggles. “Sorry. I’m… not the best driver.” As if to prove it, the car drifts slightly before she corrects it.

“Comforting.” I say, cracking a smile.

“Hey, I said better than the bus, not perfect.”

The panic clawing at my chest loosens its grip as we talk.

“Thanks for the ride.”

“No problem. You said you work for the Housing department?” she asks. “Do you like it there?”

I shrug. “Most days. I like helping people, you know? Feels like it matters.”

Her expression softens. “That’s… really nice. I do taxes, and sometimes wonder if I’m helping anyone at all.”

“You are,” I say. “People would be lost without you.”

She laughs, a light sound that makes the morning feel less like a disaster.

“So,” she says, “did you grow up around here?”

“Yeah. You?”

“Same. On the east side.”

“No way. East High?”

She groans. “Unfortunately.”

“West.”

She side-eyes me. “So we’re enemies.”

“Legally required, I think.”

“Wow,” she says, shaking her head. “And here I am, giving you a ride. Personal growth.”

By the time we arrive at my building, neither of us seem in a hurry anymore.

“Well,” I say, unbuckling, “I guess this is me… not losing my job today.”

“Glad I could help,” she replies. We sit there for a moment, neither of us moving.

I reach for the handle.

“Hey,” I mutter, “would you want to grab coffee sometime? Preferably when I’m not freaking out?”

Her smile returns. “I’d like that.”

We exchange numbers. Stepping out of the car, a bus rumbles past, and for once, I'm glad I missed mine.

💕💕💕💕💕

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Barb DeMoney is a writer whose work spans romance, horror, comedy, thriller, and mystery. Her stories have appeared in Micromance Magazine, Flash Phantoms, Quotidian Bagatelle, Rat Bag Lit, and KissMet Quarterly, among other publications. When not writing, Barb enjoys hiking, yoga, reading, attending concerts, and spending time with her family and dogs.