The bus was dark, generic, blue. The seats were covered in badly written messages and designs which one could spend hours trying to figure out where they began and ended. The bus was supposed to leave at nine minutes past the first hour in the morning, but as usual it waited a little bit for the drunk people to get on. It was the last bus. The drunkards were always late. He just sat in his chair sideways with his arms leaning on the seats in front and behind him. It was a comfortable position and one which was sufficiently “cool” looking to satisfy his own sense of style. He was listening to music. He was tapping his feet to the beat trying to compete with the drummer who played in the song. He felt cool. He basked in the glory of his coolness. He wore a panama hat. He was a bit drunk.

In the final seconds before the bus left she came on and eye contact was made. It was quickly broken and her expression, which was that of nothing, didn’t change. She sat down diagonally from him and pulled out some music playing device. As the bus began to pull out she began to rock her feet slightly to the beat. And then she made eye contact with him. He tried to hold it and failed. He looked away. And then his mind began to race.

“Good night?” she would ask.
“Not too bad justa couple of drinks with some friends,” he’d reply. “You?”
“Same here. A night out with the girls which got no where as usual.”
“Yup I know that one.”

He lifted his head and yawned coolfully and threw her another glance. She was trying to fall asleep, leaning her head on the hard plastic divider by the door. The bumping of the bus made it impossible. He stared for awhile hoping to catch another eye contact; see if he could hold it a bit longer this time.

She would open her eyes, meet his gaze, and say, “So, what do you do with your life?”
“Well right now I’m a student.”
“So you aren’t working?”
“Nope.”
“So why are you going home so early?”
“Last bus, and the evening wasn’t interesting enough for me to want to pay myself a cab ride home.”
“I see.” She would pause dramatically and assume an expression of pondering, “I have the apartment to myself tonight. Wanna come up for a few drinks?”
“But you hardly know me.”
“Ohh, I know you better than you think.”

She gave up on sleeping on the bus and just looked ahead as if she was thinking about something. He continued to artfully tap his feet to the music trying damn hard to figure out how the drummer made those sounds with only two hands and one foot. The bus made a left turn and began its trek through West Mount. The houses were nice, the exterior designing already laid out for the warmer months. But the yellow light piercing the obscurity gave the flowers a weird visual effect. He was drunk. He thought he liked it. The traffic lights flashed red as usual for this time of night. The bus driver treated them like stop signs, coming to unnecessary complete stops at each one. A sense of urgency assumed itself in him and he started hoping the bus driver would hurry up a bit. Once again he turned to her in attempt to unravel her secrets.

“So where do you live?” He would ask.
“Down Cote St. Luc.”
“Past the Ultramar?”
“Yes about 10 minutes on the bus past that.”
“Right, so I’ll have to cab it home or walk a half hour from your place.”
“We’ll see,” She’d say with a smile, and a feeling of excitement and anticipation filled him.

The bus turned down the road into the beginnings of NDG. Soon he would be coming up to his stop. The ride downhill was faster than the part through West Mount and the Bus driver made no attempts to slow down. Most of them took this part of the trip like this.

“So you coming with me?” She’d ask.
“Yes.”

He pushes the button requesting a stop. Exits the bus and walks across the street. The air is cool but not cold, the lighting dim and mysterious. He tilts his panama hat forward and assumes a Humphrey Bogart look. He walks slowly but deliberately. He is listening to music. He is walking to the beat. He allows the music to fill him. He smiles. He is the man. No woman can resist him. He is cool.