The seat on the bus.

Dear you,

For most of winter, the same man sat across from me on the early bus. He carried a lunch box wrapped in a tea towel. We nodded, then looked out of our separate windows.

One morning the bus was late. He offered me a piece of toast from the lunch box. It was still warm. We stood eating toast at the bus stop without having introduced ourselves.

His name is Vincent. I learned that the following week. I sometimes bring oranges now. Neither of us has ever suggested meeting outside the bus journey. I think we both like having someone who belongs to that hour.