Margen
Route 47 was scrapped nine years ago, but every evening at six Mr Andrés comes down and waits at the shelter on the corner. Everyone in the neighbourhood knows, and nobody tells him. We return his greeting and leave him his bench.
Yesterday I sat with him. He asked if I was waiting for the 47 too; I said yes, so as not to be rude. We talked about the bakery that's no longer there and how early it gets dark these days. At ten past six he clicked his tongue: "It's running late today."
At eleven past six, a bus turned the corner with 47 lit up on the front. It stopped. It opened its doors. Mr Andrés got on without the slightest surprise, greeted the driver by name and took a window seat, like a man going home.
I didn't dare get on.
It's six o'clock now, and I'm at the shelter. In case the 47 passes twice.