They always get on the bus. Everyone who sits on the bench gets on the bus. I think it must exist for them. Or maybe they exist for it. I know that my window is here so I can watch. They don’t see me, so it wouldn’t follow for me to be there for them. Maybe the window needs a watcher. Either way, they don’t see me. They don’t even look across my street. They just sit down on the bench and wait. They read or they sleep maybe, but no one looks. They wait and wait. Always sitting, always someone, until the bus comes.
I love it when the bus comes. It rolls up in it’s blue and grey shine and makes that wonderful pssssssst noise when it stops. The top is usually too shiny to look at, but my favorite part is the windows; they reflect my street and my house but it a craggy, distorted way. It looks funny. The bus comes and covers up the people on the bench and then when it leaves they’re gone. It’s like magic, the bus. I wonder where they go. They must got somewhere before they come back. Why else would they go? I wish I could go. I’m not allowed to leave the house. But I do quite love the bus. Maybe for my birthday they’ll take me to ride the bus. Then I could sit on the bench and I could disappear just like the people. Although I really do hate them. I would never ride the bus. It’s smelly I think. They really ought- She looked at me! How dare she? She’s very pretty though. I think I like her. Why did she turn away? Does she think I’m awful? Why did she look in the first place? She hates window watchers! She holds her bag like a lunatic! How does she even- My heart is really beating! Why don’they ever look? What’sher differ? I look too much! They know! They-
-the bus’shere. It’s takin’m away!
Harold. What? I’m Harold. “Yes ma’am?
“Harold, dear, your grandchildren are here to see you. Shall I send them in?”
“Grandchildren? Uh- y- yes. Please."