There is a man I see every morning on my way to school. The school bus gets to this intersection and stops for about a minute and a half. As I look out my window, there he is. He's always waiting by the bus stop. He seems to be 42 years old, and always wears the same long gray trench-coat.

Sometimes he buttons it across, even at the collar, as if he were standing in the middle of some great thunderstorm. His hair is white and mixed with shots of gray like smoke coming out of a factory. His factory-smoke hair is thinned and combed into single lines that he probably worked on for hours in front of a mirror. It sits upon his little round head gently as if it would blow away with the next gust of wind. His size can be compared to an old musty barrel that has been left out in the rain and is filled to the brim, bulging to its limits. He has the chubby cheeks that aunts who smell like mothballs like to grab between their thumbs and forefingers to pinch and stretch. He stands there quiet and still, like a spotted dog listening for its prey. He seems almost afraid that if he were to move even the least bit to the left or the right the world would end right then and there. As he stands there, I tend to notice little things about him. Each morning I check for them. I look for his dusty penny loafers, his gray socks, the crumpled dollar in his chubby hand, and his ears which are always reddened by the cold. I don't know why, but I imagine that he smells of coffee. I imagine that the first thing he does in the morning is make a pot to help him get to the bus stop on time. I sometimes question his mental stability because his eyes are filled with the curiosity and innocence of a five-year-old who only knows that he has to get to the bus stop. To me, it seems that going to the bus stop is his only purpose. But I wonder where he goes. No matter how my day starts, whether good or bad, he stands there waiting. He stands there with his childlike expression, waiting. Waiting, waiting, waiting ... c