It was a Tuesday morning, the kind Melbourne offers after a night of rain—streets glistening, air crisp, the sky a pale blue canvas. The 392 bus pulled up to the Station, sighing open its doors. I watched from my seat near the back of the bus. Among the shuffle of commuters, a woman stepped on, clutching a mobile phone and a coffee that had already betrayed her with a drip down her sleeve.
She took the last window seat, headphones on but music off, watching the city blur past. At the next stop, a man boarded—tall, slightly disheveled, with a camera slung across his chest and a book tucked under his arm. He scanned the bus, hesitated, then sat beside the woman.
“Sorry,” I heard him say in a voice low and warm. “Didn’t mean to invade your bubble.”
The woman smiled without turning. “It’s alright. I always live in a bubble.” He chuckled. “What’s in it?” She tilted the phone toward him. Her browser was open, and on the screen he could see the words “Amateur Picture Gallery” “Are you a photographer” she said.
He raised an eyebrow. “Are you a model?” “Only for people with cameras”
He laughed again, and something shifted—like the bus had taken a turn neither of them noticed. They talked the whole ride. His name was Ric, a street photographer who chased light and human stories. Hers was Betty, refusing to tell him where she worked. They discovered they’d both been to the same obscure party in Brighton Le Sands years ago, both had friends in common on Instagram, both were convinced that Via Napoli was best Pizza in Sydney.
The bus reached its destination. Most passengers disembarked quickly, but we both lingered, reluctant to break the spell. “Do you want to walk from here?” he asked.
She nodded. I followed closely by, but from the opposite side of the street. They wandered along the footpath, the traffic humming beside them. He ran ahead and took a photo as she crossed the road She used her phone to do the same while he took a photo of her.
Miles passed unnoticed. As they got closer to the parade, Ric moved closer to her. I could see him, side by side, hands brushing, silence full of promise. Tension between them. Then he grabbed her hand and pulled her in close to him, kissing her right there in the open. She kissed him back.
He said something to him, let go of her hand and then walked away in another direction. When I got home, I asked her what he said. She said that they had agreed to meet every Tuesday in the same seat. But next Tuesday, she wasn’t allowed to wear any underwear. I laughed and replied “When he gets to know you better, he will think that was funny”