There’s an audiobook playing in my headphones, but I can’t remember to actually listen to it. The workday replays in my head instead: a big mistake, a tough conversation, a to-do list for tomorrow that is already giving me a headache today.

But as I round the corner at the station, I see you. Your shiny black hair tucked under your own headphones. I know it’s you even before I see your face; your trusty canvas tote that you got in Portland and the charm on your backpack give you away.

You board the bus ahead of me and I notice you sit in the row in the back and up the step where we normally used to sit. I already feel better just from seeing you.

“May I sit here?”

“Yeah, sure,” you offer the seat before even looking at me.

“What brings you back to 37?” I ask, sitting down, tugging off my headphones, and leaning in for a hug.

“OH! Hi! It is 5:05 isn’t it?” We used to share this evening commute. Bus 37 from Arts Center at 5:05pm. But you moved, and life got crazy for me, and work picked up for both of us. But I know that it’s mostly been my fault. We’ve both been riding home alone on separate lines- probably a metaphor for how we’ve drifted apart. I wonder if you’ve noticed those times I texted you at 5:05, missing you while sitting next to someone I wished was you.

You meet me in our hug. But I can tell the workday has been equally hard on you. Your smile warm but soft. It’s a relief just to sit next to you and I squeeze you hard, trying to melt away your problems and make up for lost time.

I desperately try to catch up about everything going on in our lives. 15 minutes struggling to hold all the emotion and information that we’re trying to share.

Your shoulders shake with laughter telling me the story about your dog’s latest adventure at the dog park.

You rub my arm while we discuss a family health issue that I’m dealing with.

We moan and groan enough about work to land on our favorite fantasy: Let’s quit and open up that bookstore/barbershop/coffee and cocktail shop that’s lived in our heads for forever.

I pull the cord to request my stop.

“I’m sorry that it’s been so long since we’ve really talked. I miss you,” I say.

“I’ll do better about making more time for us.” We hug again. We make promises to get together soon.

My heart is light as the bus rumbles away, taking you on to your destination. I send you a text offering a hike for next Sunday. “Thank you for being in my life, let’s not wait for the next bus ride to see each other,” I add.

I slip my headphones back on, realizing that my audiobook is still playing.