I love this job, both jobs, most days. Looking for greener pastures doesn’t enter my mind. Even if those thoughts did, I couldn’t leave, because in the last six months all had changed. I simply can’t leave until everything plays out.

3

Mariana entered my life via the bus’s front boarding steps. She delicately boarded the bus, gliding like a dream. Her smile, followed by a casual “hello,” hit me like an electric spark that traveled up my spine and charged my soul. Think those zap things that restart hearts. Her smile did that to me. Smile. Spark. Zap. Now I’m magnetized to her. Nope, I can’t leave now.

I’m in glorious, wonderful, very fine love.

The day she hit me with that warm smile was cold, wet, and nasty; not a day you’d expect love to come a knocking. She climbed aboard my bus, soaked and bedraggled, golden-blonde coils, dark with moisture, poking out from beneath her raincoat hood.

Mariana pushed back the hood of her green-with-pink roses patterned coat, looked down her front, then back at me.

“Sorry. I’m dripping. Raining crazy out there. Am I okay?”

Droplets ran down her jacket to puddle on the charcoal-colored steps as she stared at me through running-mascara-blackened eyes. A gentle, magical light switched on instantly brightening that cloud-darkened day.

I heard my Mama’s voice whisper in my ear. Rory, she’s the finest, most beautiful natural woman in the world. I like her. I know Mama, me too.

I remember that day like yesterday, remember I’d wanted to say something smart, something flirty and light. Normally I’m good with a quip. Witty Fine, some call me. Something happened to my brain or my heart or whatever had joyfully twisted inside my chest. My voice had been suddenly held hostage so the best I had managed was a nod toward the back of the bus and a limp smile.

“Thank you,” she’d said, pulling and pushing at her coat as though removing a layer of skin. More drops flew about her. Then she had moved down the aisle, her coat now over her arm. The last glance I had snatched in my mirror was of her seating herself next to Mr. Ogilvy (gray-haired, weary eyes and always missing his son).

Six months ago that had happened and still I hadn’t worked up anything close to enough courage to squeak more than a “hello” or “have a nice day.” I guess that’s why today I became bold and took a risk. On reflection, what possessed me?

Love. Unexpressed love.

On this stifling day, air sticky with invisible moisture, the highlight was my anticipation of Mariana’s stop. Nearly two years now, the nine-zero-five was my regular route, traveling through City Central with its towering buildings, bustle of shops and department stores, clutter of lunch bars and cafes, and thousands of workers navigating the streets, seemingly always in a rush. From the city we enjoyed a picturesque two-mile drive along the wide and glistening-blue Dawson River, the focal point of the city. Then, on to East Village (doesn’t every city have an East Village?). Here we passed the ramshackle, no-longer-in-use, ancient cemetery. Then along Ellsworth Road, the epicenter of the village, dotted with small boutiques, sweet, fine eateries nestled beneath low-rise residential apartment blocks, (sprung up like well-watered saplings since the reinvigoration of the area).