Reunion
by VerbalAbuse
Copyright© 2026 by VerbalAbuse
Romance Story: Two people reunite on a bus journey.
Tags: Gay
He arrived at the departure point well before dawn. The sea was not visible, but its salty smell was in the air. The buildings along the street were wooden, low, and poorly kept. Paint peeled from the walls. A few windows were lit -- dim yellow squares behind thin curtains.
The old bus was already waiting at the market. The paint on its sides was chipped and dull; its windows clouded with dust. People waited nearby. Some stood, some sat on their luggage.
Around them, the market was slowly waking. A woman walked past carrying a basket. Two men argued farther off. A cart entered from a side street, strained under the weight of crates filled with fish.
The man stopped a short distance from the bus and looked at the other travelers. They looked back at him, but not for long. He wasn’t from the place. That much they could see. He was dressed too well, like a shopkeeper from the city or a well-to-do gentleman.
The driver arrived without announcement. He was a thick man with a cap pulled low, his face already tired. He unlocked the door and climbed inside. One by one, the passengers followed.
Inside, the bus smelled of dust and old fabric. The seats were narrow and worn smooth. The man took a place by the window. When the engine started, it shuddered for a long moment before settling into a steady noise.
They left while it was still night. The road out of town was unpaved, and dust rose behind them. The buildings thinned quickly. Soon there was only the road and the sound of the engine.
Light showed along the horizon. The land opened as the sun came up, pale at first. Low hills appeared, then farther off, the outline of mountains. Distant and dry, their slopes bare, giving way to snowed peaks. The bus kept going toward them.
After a while, the conductor rose from his seat near the front and moved down the aisle. He was a thin man, neither tall nor short, with a narrow face and a cap that had lost its shape. His jacket hung loosely on him, as if it had once belonged to someone else. He walked without hurry, steadying himself as the bus swayed.
The man by the window watched him approach. He followed him with his eyes as the conductor stopped at each seat, asked a question, named a price, took the money, tore a small ticket or marked something in a notebook.
When the conductor reached him, he stopped and looked down.
“Where to?” he asked.
The man named the city.
The conductor told him the fare. The man took the money from his pocket and handed it over. The conductor counted the bills, gave him his ticket and change, then moved on without another word.
They passed through small towns: a few houses, a closed store, a dog standing in the road. Then stretches of open land. Fences ran alongside the road for a while, then ended. Fields grew little; sheds leaned in the wind. Groups of trees clung to a farmhouse.
The conductor returned to his seat at the front. He faced forward, speaking only occasionally to the driver.
After a while, the man stood and walked toward him. The bus jolted; he grabbed the back of a seat to steady himself.
“Sir,” he said.
The conductor did not respond. The engine was loud, the road uneven.
The man stepped closer, placing a hand lightly on his shoulder. The conductor turned.
“I’d like a word,” the man said.
The conductor hesitated, then nodded.
The man walked back down the aisle and stopped at an empty bench near the rear. He sat. The conductor followed and stood there, waiting.
“Sit,” the man said.
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