As my nightly venture into the heart of the city began,
And the dark clouds overhead hugged the evening sky,
Dark, murmuring giants blanketing every window and street,
A droning aerial orchestra tuning its instruments,
Down here, far below, I spotted upon the path of my evening patrol
A stoic face perched under the noisy tin roof of an old bus stop,
A place near which I have never known any soul to linger.

Curiosity overtaking me, I decided to stop and sit,
Resting my weight precariously against the rusted mesh bench,
Quietly observing this stranger, a young woman who,
In her intense state of meditation, had taken no note of my approach.
Nor did she pay any mind to the crescendoing rainfall that began to envelop her,
As I then realized she stood just outside the shelter of the stop.

Following this moment of shock, I cautioned a reproach:
“Young miss,” I called out, softly so as to not startle her,
Yet clearly so as to reach her over the pitter-patter of rain against sheet metal,
“Who or what must one be waiting for, to stand so patiently as you do
At a bus stop where buses never arrive and people never wait?”

Her trance unbroken, she firmly proclaimed:
“I am waiting for my hero, my loved one, my special someone,
Who promised to arrive here by bus and take me far away from here.”
It struck me as rather odd, if not nearly unbelievable,
That such a lonely and miserable location would lend itself
To this fairy-tale rendezvous for which she was waiting so patiently.

Seeing in her eyes, however, her resolve to meet this person,
I thought it the least I could do to advise her as such:
“If your special someone is so certainly to arrive,
Then you need not allow yourself to be so thoroughly drenched
When dry shelter is only a step behind you.”

As the surrounding structures loomed silently above us,
Seemingly leaning in as if attempting to be privy to our exchange,
I caught what could almost be called a twinge of annoyance on her face,
As if her sense of reason had been offended by my suggestion.
“I do not mind getting a little wet, nor should I!
My special someone would wait in the rains of the greatest storm
Without hesitation, if we were to be together,” she replied.

Whatever confusion my remark had caused her,
Mine was certainly greater, as her gesture of self-sacrifice
Would most definitely not make the bus come any sooner, if at all.
Failing to see the benefit of her prostration at the hands of Mother Nature,
I urged once more for her to see reason:
“Surely at this time of the evening, in those damp clothes,
You must be freezing! It would be no good for your special someone to arrive
After you’ve gone and caught your death like a fool!”

As though invoked by my lashing out, the rain came down harder,
The timid pitter-patter now a hearty roar around and above us,
And with the change of the weather I could see anger forming in her features,
Her fists balled, her scowl tense,
Her eyes trained ever harder onto a distant nothingness,
All apparently owing to what I believed only to be a reasonable show of concern.
“You know nothing of our devotion to one another!
My special someone would wait in the coldest of winds
Without so much as a shiver, if we were to be together,” she snapped.

As my thoughts momentarily drifted to my remaining journey,
Now made all the more menacing with wind and dark and rain,
I felt less inclined to entertain her fantastical conviction,
And resigned with one final appeal to her better judgement:
“Be that as it may, your special someone will not arrive, I’m sure.
What few buses do pass through here would have come and gone long ago.
Were one to arrive with your someone in tow, it would have stopped already.”

Though I suppose it was the reaction I was hoping for,
The last thing I expected to see from this woman
Was a subtle look of anguish and defeat, creeping its way
Into the crevices and weaknesses of her face,
Struggling with her own will for dominance of her wavering expression.
She turned her head back away from me, almost tearful now,
And quietly asserted to herself:
“My special someone would wait for me, if we were to be together.”

I saw the woman once more that night, much later,
Spying her from behind the open blinds of my apartment window,
Trekking back, unaccompanied, to urban civilization in the now dwindling rain.  
Distance and weather confused the tears on her cheeks, but shining through,
I saw that same fiery determination boiling behind her eyes.
I waited for her to pass by my doorstep,
Offering her the warmth and comfort of my home in her forlorn state,
And as I watched her sleep, her face softening into a look of contentment,
I wondered to myself if I did as her special someone would,
And if she was still waiting.