The yellow vinyl bench seating was damp where it met the concrete curbstone. Early morning light filtered through the dusty plexiglass case housing the bus timetable. A thin film of salt residue coated the edge of the sidewalk, marking where the wetness had pooled overnight. Everything else looked settled for the day—the benches were aligned, the trash receptacle stood upright, and the corner felt properly empty after the late-night cleaning crew finished their sweep. Standing slightly to the left of the bench, one could watch the rhythmic drip from the gutter pipe mounted above the timetable display. It was a steady, predictable sound that measured out time in small, metallic drops striking the wet concrete below. The schedule itself held the most immediate discrepancy. The printed departure time for the first bus showed 6:17 AM, yet the minute hand on the corner of the laminated sheet read 6:14 AM. It was three minutes ahead of what any current clock indicated. As if acknowledging this small error in timing, the drip slowed its pace, hitting a slightly deeper puddle with an exaggerated plink. The routine demanded that the timetable be accurate for the day’s start; it needed to reflect the present moment. But the dripping water seemed intent on keeping time by its own measure, steadily insisting that the morning had already begun three minutes before anyone was actually waiting there.
glow · watchful