Creative Non-Fiction Short Stories. :) Travel, Oldsters, Love, and Compassion.
Flirting with the narrator was a sure way into the story.
He must have known this, though certainly half her age. He approached at the bus stop not long after she did. He wore the winter uniform for guys around there: straight jeans, flat Puma sneakers, puffy black coat with the hood flipped sometimes up and sometimes down–as needed to demonstrate restlessness. He checked the schedule on the sign more than once, making animated expressions as if to an audience. He rocked from his heels up onto his toes, putting his hands in his pockets, leaning back. A friend called and he read the list of stops from the sign. Only two stops? Okay. He could have walked by the time the bus would arrive. Instead, he stood in the periphery of the woman and danced a bit to stay warm.
She was looking at the North Star, so he gave it a glance too. Then he checked the moon, then checked to see if she was still looking up. He stood in her periphery for security. It was dark, late, quiet. He decided on a hurried cigarette, not even half finished when the bus pulled up.
Only a few blocks later, as he moved toward the exit, she turned to see him go. She was smirking about something and holding a notebook. So he stopped to give her a wink before he fled. A wink and a slight head nod. He was out of the bus before she laughed out loud, her breath a cloud of steam in the chilly evening. A shame she had no chance to say thank you.