A Chance Encounter

I remember waiting every morning for a sleepy, yellow bus to appear at the end of my street—wind-swept, rain-washed, bathed in the sunshine.

The small group of usual suburban commuters lingered around: bored office workers, a woman with broad hips and neon-pink lipstick, students hunched over their readings, fingers busy with small keyboards on even smaller gadgets—plugged into the cyber world. Dragging their glorious youth through the morning of our real world. Oblivious to it.

On that particular morning, it might have been a Wednesday or Friday, as the bus arrived and I climbed in, jostling for the nearest seat, someone called my name. The sound startled me.

A young woman was smiling at me between the rows of bus seats. I recognized her face. We attended the same classes at university. I smiled back, and she moved a few steps to sit beside me. I couldn't instantly recall her name, but her face evoked images of her in our class—always punctual, focused, eager. Assignments handed in on time, presentations polished, pitches delivered with confidence, excellent networking skills. Brisk movements matched with swift, sharp eloquence.

Her voice cascaded around me in a rapid succession of questions. She wanted to know how I was doing, where I worked, how life was treating me. It was only a lucky coincidence we met, she said. Her new car was at its first service; otherwise, she would not be taking the bus to work. But, in any case, she explained, it was only a few days ago that my name was mentioned.

"Jenny, remember her with her manila folders, post-it notes, and every color highlighter? Well, anyway, she is now working at the same firm I am, so we went for a drink last Friday and talked about uni and all that, as you do, and out of the blue, your name came up. Like where have you ended up?"

Over her shoulder, I could see fat raindrops disturbing the dust on the bus’s window, drawing tiny teardrops across it. On the pavement, a small boy was holding his mother’s hand; they were waiting to cross the street. A heady, sweet scent traveled from a young woman in an elegant grey suit, a chic haircut, and a pair of turtle-shell-rimmed glasses. An expensive-looking watch bounced around her wrist whenever she moved her hand. She was talking to me. Now she had clasped my hands into hers and brought her face closer to mine—"So, how are you doing then?" Each word sounded like it was coming from a deep well.

Words slipped through before I could stop them; "I write," I said.

"Oh really? You mean like legal papers?"

"No, not really."

"So, what do you write then?"

"I write stories, poems … posts for my blog."

"Oh, I see. You mean you are like a content writer, an influencer. It’s what it’s called, isn't it?"

"Yes, I think that’s what it's called. But it isn’t what I do."

She unclasped my hands and adjusted her glasses. She glanced at her wrist.

"Listen, I just remembered someone said a while back that you had landed a government gig right after grad school, right?"

"I did."

"So, you do have a real job?"

"I did."

"Good for you! Oh, I think I better get off here."

I swung my legs aside, and she stepped onto the alley. The bus rolled to a stop.

"So why do you write that stuff then?"

"I like stories. And poems."

She was already through the door. Walking briskly and purposefully. To a large law firm.