Story: The Ticket Tray

The bus station opened at five, but the lights came on at three.

Mara knew because she had been sitting there since ten past two, on the blue plastic bench under Stand C, with her coat folded across her knees and one pound twenty in the ticket tray. The tray belonged to the closed kiosk. A steel mouth under a shutter. She had put the coins there because her palm had started to sweat around them, and because keeping hold of money felt too much like making a plan.

Rain moved down the glass in separate roads.

The departure board was dark except for a row of dull rectangles where the old letters had burned themselves into the screen. Then, without ceremony, it blinked and showed 05:12 WARRINGTON INTERCHANGE. Under that came 05:28 HUYTON. Then 05:40 AIRPORT.

Each line looked like a dare.

Mara had not packed well. A phone charger, two shirts, the black jumper with the hole in the cuff, a notebook she had not opened for three years. The bag sat by her boots, soft and guilty. She had thought leaving would become easier once she reached a place made for leaving. Instead the station made every exit official.

A cleaner came through with a yellow bucket and did not ask her anything. He worked around Stand A, slow and careful, sending thin sheets of water toward the drain. His radio was very low. Not music exactly. A voice talking in the dark.

At four thirty, a bus arrived empty and sighed itself level by the kerb. Its driver opened the door, stepped down, and lit a cigarette under the shelter where smoking was not allowed. He looked at Mara once. Not long enough to accuse her. Not kindly enough to save her.

She took her phone out. No new messages. She had turned it off after the argument and turned it on again in the station because turning it off had felt dramatic, and drama required energy she no longer had.

The speaker above her clicked.

"The five twelve service is not yet running."

The sentence seemed designed for her specifically, although it was probably designed for nobody. Service not yet running. Doors not yet open. Decision not yet collected.

Mara stood, then sat again.

The coin tray shone under the kiosk shutter. She picked up the pound coin, then put it back. The smaller coins she left where they were, bright in the groove. A tiny fare to the possibility of staying.

When the driver finished his cigarette, he ground it under his heel and got back on the bus. The engine became a low animal behind the doors.

Mara lifted her bag onto the bench beside her.

Not onto her shoulder.

Beside her.