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Everything was quiet, the way things tend to be two hours before dawn. Simon let his weight fall on the wooden bench with a sigh and wondered about the purple raindrops he was seeing inside his eyes. He had just spent nine hours straight killing Nazis in a dingy gamer café, and he was wishing the night bus would come soon. He hoped his mother wouldn’t be awake already.
About one and three-quarter hours before dawn, soft footsteps broke the night. Simon looked over, and then just kept looking. It was a ballerina, dressed as if she had just stepped out of Swan Lake, her white costume shining in the night and crinkling like wafers breaking as she sat down on the other end of the bench. She wiped her eyes with her hand and sniffled. Her makeup was running, but she kept her head strangely high.
One hour and forty minutes before dawn, the bus thundered in. He got on; she did not. The bus took him home.
© 2007 Tuesday Magazine / a student-run organization at Harvard College
The Harvard name is a trademark of the President and Fellows of Harvard College and is used by permission of Harvard University.
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