GPS
...
I refresh the app on my phone, eyes squinting against the obnoxious white-blue glow of the screen.
It reads:
2 minutes (GPS)
Shit, I think, slipping out of my seat and making for the door. The train’s not even stopped yet; the brakes have just started to whine.
It takes, at best, a full sixty seconds to speed-walk from the platform to the bus stop. Speed-walk, because if I try anything faster in these heels, I’ll be eating pavement—i.e., doubly screwed.
I refresh the app once, twice, three times. Still, it reads:
2 minutes (GPS)
The brakes are really screeching now, and I feel my hopes rising against my will. I can probably make it. The train gives its final lurch.
I tap the refresh button.
1 minute (GPS)
Shit, shit, SHIT.
The doors open ... and I’m off to the races.
I shift my weight to the balls of my feet to compensate for the heels, and then it’s one foot in front of the other, quick as I can without breaking into a jog.
The path is at an incline and within seconds, my calves are burning from the strain of hustling on tiptoe. I’m flitting between commuters, brushing shoulders and panting breathless apologies. Up above, on my right, I see the red and white of the city buses and I know I’m close, so I put my head down and focus on my feet.
Left-right-left-right-left-right ...
I glance up—and there it is, rolling to a stop past the crowd.
The 63.
I weave as best I can through the mass of people craning their necks and checking their phones, so, so close—
And it starts to pull away.
“Wait!”
The shout comes out hoarse, drawing stares and raising eyebrows. Past the point of caring, I wave my arms over my head frantically, rapidly approaching the curb and hoping beyond hope that the driver will spot me in their mirror and take pity.
“Stop! Please!”
For one long moment, the bus keeps rolling forward, and my heart plummets.
Then, a gorgeous sound greets my ears: that distinctive, pneumatic hiss of the brakes.
A triumphant peal of laughter rips itself from my throat. Of its own accord, my face breaks into a full-fledged grin—the kind that sets your cheeks to aching.
Jubilant, I jog the last few steps to the parting doors.
As my foot makes purchase on the floor of the bus, the driver smiles at me, chuckling lightly.
“Just made it!” she quips. “Good on you.”
“Thank you,” I manage between harsh gasps of air, hand fumbling in my pocket for my pass.
The driver shakes her head and turns her attention back to the traffic with a lingering smile. I can tell I’ve been dismissed.
Letting my shoulders drop in relief, I slap my card to the reading screen, watching as it lights up green.
That was a close one, I muse, laughing quietly as I head to my seat, ready to go home.
...