The bus was idling, the door open to a better-lit night. “It’s Acrewood, isn’t it?” Frank said. Drowsily, she roused herself. Her breath was sour and something was aching after being suspended awkwardly for an hour. “You owe me a return ticket,” Frank said. “And laundry services. And a new hip.” She embraced him. He laughed, embarrassed, but then eased into it. “You go ahead now,” he said shyly from her collarbone. “Stop smoking, Frank.” She released him and took the stairs down to the ground. It was a day of exiting buses with hands empty. She heard the doors close behind her and felt the smeared pockets of her capris. With great belatedness, she discovered that she had taken nothing—not her bag, nor wallet, nor cell phone. Frank was disengaging the brake, the bus about to roll forward, when she spun around and banged on the glass of the door. Wearily, Frank opened the door. “Let no one say the bus line is not a full-service operation,” he sighed when she told him the reason.
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