4338.207 · July 26, 2018 AD
Beetles on the Bus
The bus always feels the same—even when everything else has started to shift under your feet. Karen and Jane find their seats, shoulder to shoulder, wrapped in wool and the particular exhaustion of winter evenings. They talk about beetles and bad management, about walks that shouldn't happen in the dark. Then Luke calls. The conversation is brief. Normal enough. But after he hangs up, neither of them can shake the question: What do you really want, Luke Smith?
Thursday evening. Elizabeth Street. The 6:45 to Berriedale.
Karen arrives at the bus stop carrying a day that doesn't fit into sentences—understaffed offices, incompetent management, a council submission for stag beetle habitat that no one seems to understand matters. Jane is already there, steady as always, offering the kind of presence that doesn't demand explanation. They've done this a hundred times. The seats halfway down, cracked vinyl, too little legroom. The fog on the windows that turns the city to smudged light. The quiet that settles when neither has energy left to perform.
Karen explains about the beetles. Jane listens, corrects "bugs" to "beetles" with the ease of long practice. They make plans: Jane will drive Karen home since Chris can't be reached.
Then Luke's name appears on Karen's phone.
The call is short. He wants to visit tomorrow. Karen invites him for breakfast—duck eggs, nine o'clock—before she's quite decided why. After she hangs up, the strangeness lingers. Something in his voice. Something in the timing. Jane feels it too.
Very odd indeed, Jane says.
Neither of them knows how right they are.
