The Bus Stop

The rain came down murderously hard in that quaint English town, bouncing off the bonnet of the little two-seater sports car, windscreen wipers thrashing at full pelt. It was dark, it was windy, it was horrible.

Through the blur of water on that desolate road, he spotted a bus stop, dimly lit with a strange green glow. Three shadowy figures sat miserably inside.

As he approached, one figure jutted up and signaled him with a hitchhiker gesture—he was sure he saw his friend. He slowed to a stop, reversed back to the bus stop, and wound down the passenger window.

"Hey Ray—want a lift?"

His friend stepped forward, coat pulled over his head against the rain. "Yeah, Steve, I would. But we've got a situation here. This old man—he looks really sick, pale as hell. He asked me to get him to a hospital. No signal out here, maybe a tower's down, no telling when the bus will come. I don't know what's wrong with him, he just mumbles. Can you take him?"

"Sure," Steve said. "Emergency, no problem."

But then he saw her. The young woman in the bus stop. Beautiful, hair wet and clinging to her face, keeping to herself on the corner. For a moment he couldn't look anywhere else. Anne Hathaway, he thought. That's exactly who she looks like.

"I tell you what," he said, turning back to his friend, "why don't you drive the old duffer to the hospital? Drop him off, then come back and pick me up." He glanced back at the woman. "He'll be more comfortable with you driving. I'll be more comfortable here, know what I'm saying?" Steve gave Ray a wink.

His friend frowned, glanced at the woman, then smirked. "Alright. That's good of you. And I know your game, you cheeky bugger—be nice."

Steve went back to the bus stop and crouched beside the old man. "We've got a car. Let's get you to hospital."

The old man's eyes fluttered open. His voice came in a ragged whisper. "Thank you... but—" He turned his head toward the young woman. "Don't get into that sports car."

Then his body slumped, breath rattling out.

The two men grabbed him under each arm, lifting his frail frame, struggling through the rain to the car. Ray slid into the driver's seat, dripping wet. The engine roared, the car sped away, spray from the tyres throwing up into the night. In moments, the red tail-lights were swallowed by darkness.

Steve was left standing with the beautiful woman in the bus stop. He sat down, leaving a respectful seat's width between them.

She looked at him warily. He thought she was absolutely stunning.

"I'm Steve," he said. "That was my friend Ray—we went to university together. We're both vets." His blue eyes locked on hers, steady and confident.

"Oh, that's wonderful. A vet. I love animals—I have a horse and two Labradors," she replied, her slight American accent softening her words. She touched her cheek self-consciously, a hint of shyness in her smile.

"I'm so glad you seem... well, normal. I think that old man was hallucinating."

She laughed softly. "I hope the bus comes soon. I'm absolutely exhausted."

"Why's that?" he asked.

She lowered her voice. "I've been up since early morning. Shooting started at six, then—"

"No, I meant about the old man hallucinating," Steve interrupted gently.

She shook her head, looking confused. "Because when your friend came back after talking to you at the car, he told me I shouldn't get in that sports car. I mean, does he even know you?"

"That's strange," Steve said, frowning. "I've never seen that old man before in my life. Maybe he was a customer? Did I treat someone's pet badly, no, I'm the best around?" He paused, thinking. "Though I can't imagine why he'd warn you about my car specifically. It's a great car, straight six model, to sixty in under seven seconds. Customers are always complaining about the cost of this and that and how their cats have special needs. It's never ending."

"I'm sure the bus will be along soon," she said, nodding hopefully.

"So... what's your name? Please don't tell me it's Anne," he chuckled, gesturing openly.

"Actually, it is Anne. Why would you guess that?"

Steve grinned. "Because you look exactly like Anne Hathaway. I mean, exactly like her."

Anne smiled mysteriously. "I get that sometimes."

In the distance, red and blue lights flashed, and headlights whizzed past—three fire engines and an ambulance speeding through the storm. Something serious must have happened up ahead, he thought.

"So, Anne, what do you do for work?" Steve asked, trying to keep the conversation going.

Anne tilted her head, a mischievous smile tugging at her lips. "I'm a dinner lady. Happy now?"

Steve laughed. "Well, you certainly don't look like any dinner lady I've ever seen."

"Obviously," Anne responded, her sarcasm gentle but pointed.

Then a long black limousine slid up through the rain, headlights cutting through the storm. The driver got out, covering his head against the downpour, and ran into the bus shelter.

"Anne! Thank God you're here. I was starting to panic!" the driver said loudly.

"Clyde! Perfect timing. Let's get to the hotel before this gets any worse," Anne replied, relief flooding her voice.

She turned to Steve. "It was lovely meeting you, Steve. Take care."

She climbed into the limo, but just as they were pulling away, the car stopped. She wound down the window and called over the noise of the rain to Steve, now standing by the bus stop entrance: "Clyde just told me—there's been a terrible crash up the road. A sports car lost control on the corner. I do hope your friend will survive, although Clyde said two are dead. So when the bus comes, you might have quite a wait while they clear it all! Bye!"

The limousine disappeared into the night, and Steve sat there alone, drenched, staring at the empty road.

A sports car... I bet it's not a straight six.