Bus Stop Cigarettes

Bus Stop Cigarettes

"Can I nick a cigarette?" came a deep gritty voice from behind me as I
de-cellaphaned a new packet. I was waiting for the number 15 and had at
least ten minutes, so the timetable said. I turned my head casually and
looked the voice in the face. "I wouldn't normally ask," he said
politely, "...actually not quite true, it's a habit of mine." He
stopped and grinned hopefully. He had a childish smile.

"Help yourself," I said and held out the cigarette box. A small point,
I thought, but his frankness was nice. "You waiting for the 15?" I
asked him as I handed him my lighter, the obvious question for a bus
stop conversation.

"Not especially," he answered, and lit his cigarette quickly.

It was a funny reply, purposely intriguing, particularly as he acted
as though it was a perfectly normal response. I played into his hands.
"Not especially?" I repeated. "Might be, might not be?"

"Well I am... in a sense," he explained, "because you're waiting for
it, right? I'm having a cigarette with you, and when the bus, the
err...15, when it comes, I won't be, right? I'm not waiting to get on
the bus though, not going on a journey, not like you..." He pointed at
me with his cigarette and made eye contact. He'd said the word
"journey" like I was about to see the world, not catch the bus home. He
flicked ash to the side of him. "Although I suppose I'm waiting for
something."

"What?" I asked him. I enjoyed the way he spoke. It was like each word
and sentence came out and floated for a while.

"Luck. Love. A dream to come true." He squinted at me as he
inhaled.

I rolled my eyes. "Right," I said sarcastically. "And you hang around
at bus stops hoping they'll show up?"

"Yep," he said. "They're just around the corner." He sniffed. "Come
on, what are you waiting for then, apart from the bus of course?"

I was on the spot, I tried to think but went blank as usual. "A
letter... from the water company..." I started. It was an answer after
all. "They overcharged me last..."

"What else?" he interrupted, making a beckoning gesture with his
cigarette-free hand.

"I don't know," I said and was disappointed with how boring I sounded.
"For someone to come along," I said impulsively. "For something to
change." Now that was me being honest. I regretted it straight away. "I
don't know," I said again, and louder, by way of retraction, "I can't
answer that kind of question, I'm waiting for the bus, that's
it."

He looked directly at me with a surprised expression and flicked more
ash. "You want someone to come along? Someone in your life? So does
everyone." He was scoffing, I knew it, I suddenly felt ridiculous. I'd
joined in his conversation, he was a complete stranger, why did I feel
pressurised, why should I tell him anyway? I turned away to look down
the road for the bus. No sign. I was only halfway through my cigarette,
but I put it out and delved into my bag. Anything to appear
preoccupied, I fumbled around inside and pulled out my house keys, put
them in my coat pocket.

"It's no use waiting," he continued, looking like he wanted to laugh.
"You're wasting time. Aren't you fed up with waiting for something that
might not even happen? Why don't you just do something?"

"Do what?" I asked halfheartedly. I was wishing I'd stuck with the
first answer. The water company wouldn't have given me away. Wouldn't
have got him going. What was it about strangers that made them talk to
me? What was it about strangers that produced these kinds of
conversations? What was it about me that meant I always had to have
them? What was it about me that never managed to avoid this
situation?

"What do you want?" He turned the tables yet again. "You want a change
right?" I nodded automatically. "Well maybe you should do something
really rash. Take a bull by the horns and all that..." He went on
talking, gesturing, he didn't realise the impression he'd made had
stopped impressing. I looked at him fluttering about on the pavement,
his cigarette burning short in his fingers. I'd liked him when he lit
that cigarette. Yes I had liked him.

And now I didn't. Without pausing to think first I burst out, "Look,
cut it out OK, what do you want? Seriously, what is it you expect to
get from this? What do you want? D'you want my cigarettes, or d'you
want me? Come on, out with it... What? You think I'm attracted to you,
your cheeky smile and your unpredictable chatter? You think I might
like you is that what it is? And then what? What?! I go with you? Sleep
with you? Become your girlfriend? Keep you in a never-ending supply of
cigarettes? What?!"

I had completely lost it. Maybe I was tired. Or just annoyed. He stood
there listening, still smoking, with half an awkward smile across his
face. "You're always such big disappointments, you... You look like you
might be different, but you never are. Never are. Not one of you
delivers. You never try to understand." I scraped my fingers across my
scalp, and large teardrops unexpectedly fell from my eyes right there
at that bus stop, in the middle of the street. I wiped my cheeks
furiously.

There was a long silence while the noise of the traffic on the road
took over. "You need a cigarette," he said suddenly, "here have one of
mine." He slid his hand into his back pocket and produced a crumpled
pack of ten. I was lost for words. It occurred to me that I should at
least show a bit of outrage, but I didn't.

"Thank you," I said, my voice composed again, and I lit it with hands
quivering.

He started up another one himself. "Chain smoker," he mumbled. We
smoked there without saying anything for quite a few minutes. The bus
was late again, but I wasn't really giving it much thought. He
eventually looked across at me, intensely, I could feel him building up
to something, and he said, "No I don't want your cigarettes... to
answer your question. The cigarette just gets me talking, I told you
before, it's a habit of mine. ...As for you, yes I did want you, if you
want to put it exactly like that, I thought you might be nice. Never
know unless you try." He blew out a long cloud of smoke. "I'm not sure
if I want you now though, to be honest. You seem a bit angry." Now he
did laugh, but not nastily. I thought perhaps I liked him again.

The number 15 appeared at the corner of the street and I shuffled
towards the curb, preparing too early to stick my arm out. "You wanna
wait a bit longer?" I spun round to ask him. "Smoke more
cigarettes?"

He shrugged. "OK."