Meeting at the bus stop

Everything about this morning was against her. The sun was mercilessly hot, her string bag was cutting her fingers, and it seemed like the entire street had gathered at the bus stop. She stood in the shade of a stunted poplar, dreaming of one thing: for this nightmare to end quickly.

And then—the blow. Someone crashed into her from behind with such force that she miraculously stayed on her heels, and her string bag flew into the dust.

"Hey!" she said indignantly, turning around abruptly. "Are you completely blind?"

And she stopped short.

A confused young man stood before her. Disheveled, with flushed cheeks, his shirt half-torn from his trousers. He looked as if he'd just been hit by a truck.

"Oh!" he breathed. "Sorry! I was going to get the bus… and then you… Oh!"

And so it began. He began thrashing around, waving his arms—first toward the departing bus, then at her, then somewhere into the sky. He lunged for the string bag, missed, nearly fell over himself, waved his arms again, and finally, grabbing the bag, thrust it at her, managing to spill change from his pocket in the process.

"Hold on!" he blurted out and immediately stepped on his own snout.

She looked at this circus and felt her anger melt away. It was impossible to be angry with such a bungler.

“Come on,” she couldn’t resist, hiding her smile. “Alive?”

“I don’t know…” he breathed out, looking up at her. “I’m sorry, I really didn’t mean to. It’s just that you… well, I mean, I… Eh!”

He fell silent and suddenly smiled, guiltily and brightly.

"Can I walk you? To the store? Or from the store?" He waved his hand again, almost hitting a passerby.

"Oh, I'm sorry!" he shouted after her and then back to her: "Please? Otherwise I'll be worried all day."