The Bus Driver's Destination
"Vivian drives the Route 15 through Atlanta every day. When a regular passenger starts sitting closer to the front, she discovers some routes lead to unexpected stops."
The Route 15 is my domain.
Peachtree to Cascade, five rounds a day. I'm Vivian—fifty-seven, behind the wheel for twenty-two years, the steadiest hands on MARTA.
"Morning, Miss Vivian."
The regular takes his usual seat—fourth row, aisle. He's been riding my route for six months.
"Morning, Mr. Williams."
Same exchange every day. Same smile.
But lately, he's been moving closer.
Marcus Williams boards at Peachtree.
Works downtown, exits at Cascade, wears a tie that's always slightly crooked. I've noticed more than I should.
"Slow day?" he asks, now seated in the second row.
"Every day's the same." I pull out from the stop. "That's the job."
"Maybe that's what I like about it."
He keeps moving forward.
Third row. Second row. Eventually the seat right behind me, close enough to chat while I drive.
"You ever get tired of the same route?" he asks.
"Sometimes. But consistency is underrated."
"What if something unexpected happened?"
"Like what?"
"Like..." He pauses. "Like meeting someone you didn't expect."
"Are you flirting with me, Mr. Williams?"
The question's out before I can stop it. The traffic light is red; I can actually look at him.
"Yes." No hesitation. "I've been trying to for six months."
"On my bus?"
"It's where you are." He smiles. "I adjusted my commute just to ride this route."
"You're crazy."
"Probably." He moves to the seat right behind me. "But you're the best part of my day, Miss Vivian. Have been since I first boarded."
"We've never had more than a five-minute conversation—"
"Some connections don't need more." The light turns green. "Coffee? After your shift?"
Coffee becomes dinner.
Dinner becomes movies. Movies become Sundays at his place, cooking together, pretending this is all normal.
"My coworkers think I'm losing it," I admit.
"Why?"
"Dating a passenger. At my age."
"Our age." He pulls me close. "And what they think doesn't matter."
"What does matter?"
"This." He kisses me in his kitchen. "Right here. Right now."
"Marcus—"
"I've waited six months to touch you." His hands find my waist. "Stop talking and let me."
His bedroom is warm, welcoming.
He undresses me by lamplight, taking his time with each layer.
"Beautiful," he says.
"You've never seen me out of uniform—"
"I've imagined it every day." He kisses my shoulder. "Reality is better."
His mouth travels my body.
Down my neck, my breasts, the soft abundance of my middle. When he reaches between my thighs, I grip his headboard.
"Marcus—"
"Just drive." He looks up, grinning. "I know my way around."
He does know his way around.
Brings me twice before finally climbing up my body. When he enters me, we both exhale.
"Worth the wait," he groans.
"The commute or this?"
"Both."
Afterward, in his tangled sheets, he holds me.
"Move in with me."
"What?"
"You heard me." He pulls me closer. "I don't want to just be your passenger anymore."
"We've only known each other—"
"I've known you six months. Watched you handle rude passengers with grace, traffic with patience, everything with steady hands." He kisses my forehead. "I know enough."
The Route 15 gets a new regular.
Marcus, now boarding at my stop, riding to work together before I start my shift.
"People are talking," my supervisor notes.
"Let them talk." I smile. "My driving's never been better."
The wedding is on a bus.
Rented from MARTA for the day, decorated in flowers. The route we drive? Peachtree to Cascade, same as always.
"To the best driver in Atlanta," Marcus toasts.
"To the passenger who changed my route," I counter.
We kiss at every stop.
Some destinations are on the map.
Some aren't.
And some bus drivers find that the best journeys are the ones you don't plan.
All aboard.
Forever.