Four o'clock

There she sits quietly on a bench, just watching and waiting. She wears a plum knit hat pulled over her brown bushy curls, wraps a gray scary round her neck and covers her round freckled nose. Her cheeks are rosy from the cold, she has her coat, hat and scarf so she is warm enough. She has to wait until four o'clock anyway, for that is the time he'll pass on his way home. Sometimes he takes the subway, other times the bus, but it doesn't matter; he always passes this bench. She smiles beneath her scarf as he strides past, he too is bundled up in a thick peacoat with a scarf and gloves. She smiles at his near perfect posture, his relaxed carefree expression, and the way he looks about. He's not an observer like her, but he likes to look around. He looks at her for a moment, his smile still dancing on his face. She looks at him still, their eyes are locked, but then he walks on. He always walks on, she knows this too well. She would see him again perhaps, tomorrow at four o'clock.