Parallel Lines

Work is always work until it's close to knock-off time.

He gets off at 1:57. I suspect it's officially two but he's always in for afternoon tea by then. He is the last customer I serve. From behind my cash register I watch him leave the sports store and cross the mall. There's always a heavy flow of shoppers on weekdays, skipping from sale to sale, rushing left and right. He looks in neither direction, but walks straight across, forcing others to move to avoid him. I like to think it's me he's walking towards with such purpose in his stride.

He orders a medium latte and an M+M cookie every day. Coffee for a guy who is deep and thoughtful, the sweet for someone who is a little different – he is no boring chocolate brownie or iced doughnut. He makes his way to the only window table available and sits facing the road outside. Other days he chooses one of the seats right by the frame and rests his head against the glass. He closes his eyes and I like to think he is dreaming of summer days with me.

He catches the 2:45 bus home. I know because I catch it too. We don't live so far away, but it's just out of walking distance. He sits at the back like he's still in high school and I sit at the front to chat with the driver. He always gets off at the bus shelter before mine. The fence that separates our houses is exactly 134 steps from both stops – I've checked. I like to think that this is some sort of sign.

I reach my destination before him, walking fast, but I dawdle at the mailbox until he arrives. I smile at him and sometimes he nods in return before ascending the steps and disappearing into his house. It's always a bitter-sweet parting. Fridays are the worst because the weekend steals him away from me. I wait eagerly for Monday morning and the 8:30 bus which brings us closer again. We get so close – always heading in the same direction – but we never touch.

Because we are just parallel lines.