I’m waiting for the bus on 50th Street, having just eaten fried pizza at the new and much-hyped Don Antonio’s. It’s cold and raining, and the girl next to me is gawking as I struggle to pull on my gloves while keeping my umbrella upright. She had already been at the bus stop when I arrived, so I’d of course stood to her left to form the beginnings of a line. Another girl walks up moments later, stands to my left, and consults a bus map that’s no doubt of very little help, since the MTA refuses to actually mark the stops on it for some reason.
We wait for ten minutes, and the line gets longer. People keep stepping off the sidewalk to get a better look down 50th Street, our umbrellas blocking each other’s views. Finally the bus arrives, and I close my umbrella, knowing I’m going to be second onto the bus and not wanting to hold anyone up behind me.
But I see that in front of the girl next to me–the girl who had been alone at the bus stop when I walked up–an old lady has appeared out of nowhere. And in the time it takes for the bus to pull up and stop, an old man hobbles over on a cane and stands behind the old lady.