Every day Ian walks home from work. A specific routine that had somewhat recently, brought curiosity into his mundane life. After each end of shift, he passes through the same train station depot on his way home. Muted colors of bleached sand and stale concrete breezes. Fuzzy conversations of people chatting on their phones. Leather echoed clacks of shoes, tussling pages of newspapers being read, and hollow computerized arrival times squelching through hidden speakers. In less than a minute, he walks from one end to the other. A small section of stale boring life in a vibrant city landscape. But, not every day.

Sometimes this small dull cutout from metropolitan chaos, seems to pulse with unseen color. To Ian, on these days, a vibration is present. A steady hum soaks the breath in his lungs like a base gravity of minerals. It makes his skin warm and his mind clear. On these days, he sees a peculiar woman. Mind you, it is not the woman as a person, that draws his interest here. Not the clothes she wares or even her looks. It isn’t even because she, is a she, in fact. The woman is always sitting on the same bench. Far from the rest of the faceless people. No one walks close to where she sits. There is only a bench, a sign, and an unused driveway. Every time Ian has seen her, she is reading a heavily worn book that changes from week to week. Different colors, different sizes. But always in a condition of aged use. She is always relaxed and calm. Far removed from the hurriedly bustling foot traffic, under contract with things to do. In this chaos he always ponders the same thing.

‘Does she not realize her surroundings? She must sit there for a reason, right?’

The days that are specifically special are when he notices her look up with expectation. Looking away as if she is expecting someone.

‘Has she been waiting for something or someone this long? How does she not know?’

But this glance only lasts a moment and the woman returns to her book. She is always smiling a content gaze of focus and serene stillness. And yet, though this is a pleasant sight for Ian, this is not his fascination. It is the fact that she appears to sit in waiting. The bench she occupies, rests kitty corner from the station and the roundabout. It is a bus stop that has been decommissioned for over a year now. Even the roundabout had been blocked off so no vehicles can enter.

‘Does she not see it? Has she even looked?

For whatever reason, the city has not found the time to remove the sign or bus schedule board from beside the bench.

After he last saw her, two days ago, Ian had made a plan. And this day was the time in hopes that, he was going to carry it out. Just as a rerun song that one might listen to a thousand times over, never getting tired of it’s tempo or back beat; he walks his path through the station. He notices her and the electricity in his skin charges. Breathing deep and gathering his nerve; diverting his trajectory, he stops next to an overhang. He does this so the woman might see him if she looks up. Ian takes out his sketch book, tears a page out, and writes a message. He is sweating profusely. A timid anxiety hints up his spine but has no leverage against his determination. He begins to walk toward her. Making an elliptical arc as to not seem aggressive or threatening. His eyes looking down enough as to not stare at her, but still able to notice if she moves. She just sits and smiles while reading. A subtle faint of marigolds fog over his senses. Putting his mind at ease. He reaches the far side of the bench and without breaking stride, slips the folded paper between the backrest crease. The paper sticks out sideways, so his words can be read at a glance. Just out of arms reach from the woman. He thinks,

‘All she has to do is look up and see what it says.’

It reads,

‘Just incase you didn’t know. This bus line has been decommissioned.’

He turns to her briefly with a smile but she does not look up. In minor disappointment, he quickly looks away and continues to his home.

‘She will see it. It’s right there. How could she not see it?’

The next day Ian walks his routine path. A clockwork endeavor. Thinking to himself,

‘Did she see the note? Will she be there this time? Was I to forward and rude? What if she already knew? What if she just likes the bench?”

On this day he doesn’t see the woman. But notices a blue envelope in place of where he slipped his note. He walks up slowly. Looking around to see if anyone is watching. He pulls out the envelope and sits. It is blank. A heavy soft textured paper. The shade of a watercolor dusk sunset.

Unsealed, he opens it. There is a single sheet of paper folded inside. A bright slick reflective sheen surface of a lemon drop candy. Inside it reads,

“I know. Thank you. I am just a girl waiting for a bus that will never come. As the sun reflects off the water that never gets to be seen.”

Ian sits back in shock.

‘She knew.’

A child like foolishness knocks him and he quickly shakes it off. Focusing his attention at what she wrote. Then, an idea comes to him and he pulls out his sketch book. He then draws a sketch of the woman. A perspective of her silhouette sitting on her bench, reading a book. He places her in the picture, surrounded by calm reflective water under the sun. To the far edge of the page a squirrel stands perched upright looking at her from a distance. When he finishes, he writes on the back. “If such a reflection is never seen, I am just a boy in a world filled with the blind. A wandering dog that knows of a rainbow.” He folds the paper inside of another and makes an envelope. When he seals it, he writes on the outside.

‘A Girl Waiting.’

He stands and fits the new correspondence in the familiar bench crease.

The next day at the same time the boy walks past and the girl is there again. Reading a comic book. This takes him a beat to adjust.

‘A comic book?’ He stops walking and smiles. Knowing that maybe she saw his message. It isn’t where he left it. His nerves are far too confusing for him to act on impulse to walk over and talk to her. He wants to talk to her but to him, he has done enough.

‘Maybe I have done too much. I have not minded my own business. I am nobody special. I just thought she didn’t know. What would I even say to her?’

As he turns to continue walking, he passes by a thick concrete overhang post and notices a familiar, pristine envelope, taped to its smooth surface, surrounded by a litter of old and worn flyers. He stops once again and turns back to take a closer look. On the outside there is a written message. It says,

‘Rainbow.’

Ian carefully takes the envelope off the pillar and opens it. Another folded paper of sunshine-crayon-hue. It reads,

‘If Poe could see that which all miss. Maybe the squirrel can speak such as this. On a Flight observed every day, wheRe does a potIon hang by the bay? PercheD in waiting, one of these wAys. Maybe a comrade reflection will swaY.”

On the back he feels more has been written. He turns it over and reads,

“A boy noticed.”

When he turns around to look back at the woman. She is gone from the bench. He then looks around but doesn’t see her in site. He turns again and looks back at the letter, thinking to himself.

‘Poe, the poet?, potion, perched, capital letters misplaced and scattered, the bay? The letters spell Friday. By the bay?, what bay?, poetry?’

Out loud he speaks,

“Wait.”

He looks up at the deli shop window not 10 feet away. It has a notice board posted on the other side of the window, facing out to the sidewalk. Job postings, artists, lost pets, and band fliers.

“There.”

He walks up close to the window and sees a large picture of a pitch night raven on a pinned sheet of paper. It faces to the left. He looks to the left and sees a band flier where a wolf is howling at the moon.

‘Could it be baying at the moon?’

He allows his eyes to follow the bread crumbs left for him. Looking slowly up the board he then see’s a notice for an open mic night at the local coffee shop not a block away.

‘Coffee is a potion, right? Open mic is at 8pm every night except Saturdays and Sundays. Potion by the bay. Clever.’

He then realizes that today is Friday. He thinks for a moment and then opens his backpack for his case of pens. Pulling out a fat green permanent marker, he walks back to the post. Cautiously looking around to see if anyone is watching, he quickly draws and fills in a green icon of a hoodie on the pillar surface where the envelope was stuck. Finished with his vandalism, he quickly leaves.

That evening he shows up at the coffee shop, wearing a green hoodie. He sits scanning the crowd and eventually orders a large coffee. Near the far wall, cozied up away from the horde of people, he can barely see the house stage. The place isn’t large so he is aware that he can be seen. Reflecting to himself he asks,

‘What am I doing? Why did I come?

After the fascinating open mic night of comedy, poetry, and performance art weirdness is finished; a barista comes to his table, and places a small note upside down at its edge. She smiles and gives a strange nod to then walk off to deliver coffee and pastries to another table. He looks at the green post it, presses his finger down on the sticky strip edge, and slowly turns it over. It simply reads,

‘You see me.’

He looks up quickly and scans the coffee shop. The lights are just dim enough so faces are not recognizable. Thinking to himself.

‘How could he possibly see her? Was she on stage and I didn’t notice?’

He ponders,

‘Wait. I get it.’

He speaks aloud,

“Clever girl.”

He smiles wide. Then, taking the post-it note, he stands up, faces the open room and slaps the post-it to his forehead. From a cross the room, a figure stands and does the same. Under the dim lights he can see a faint blue reflection coming from the person’s head. It is her. He slowly walks the perimeter of the maze. Not caring at the looks he receives. Each step a moment of curiosity inflating in his heart. Until he finally meets her focused gaze. She is smiling and giggling. The note on her forehead simply reads,

‘I see you’