The Crossing Guard Connection
"Miss Ruby has protected the school crossing for twenty years. When a single grandfather starts walking his grandchildren to school, she discovers some crossings lead to unexpected destinations."
Every morning and afternoon for twenty years, I've stood at this corner.
Rain, shine, heat, cold—I'm there. The children know me. The parents trust me. I'm Miss Ruby, and this crossing is my territory.
"Morning, Miss Ruby!"
I wave the kids across, then notice a new face.
He's walking two children—grandchildren, by the look of it. Gray beard, kind eyes, moving slow because little legs move slow.
"You must be new to the neighborhood," I say.
"Just moved in." He extends his hand. "Marcus Williams. These are my grandbabies."
Marcus becomes part of my routine.
Every morning, every afternoon, walking the kids with patience I've rarely seen in men.
"You do this every day?" I ask.
"Their mama works doubles. I'm retired. Seemed like the right thing."
"Most grandfathers I know are too busy golfing."
"Golf can wait. They can't."
We fall into conversation.
Small bits at first—weather, neighborhood, the kids' progress. Then deeper things.
"You ever been married, Miss Ruby?"
"Once. Long time ago." I adjust my stop sign. "He wasn't worth the mention."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. I got better things to guard now."
"Can I ask you something forward?"
It's been three months. The kids are inside, just us at the corner.
"You can ask."
"Would you have dinner with me?"
I almost drop my sign. "Dinner?"
"I know we just see each other at this corner. But I look forward to it more than anything else in my day." His eyes are honest. "More than I should."
Dinner becomes regular.
Then breakfast after morning crossings. Then weekends when the street is quiet and we have time.
"My daughter thinks I'm crazy," he admits.
"Dating a crossing guard?"
"Dating at all." He takes my hand. "But I told her—at sixty-five, crazy is all I've got left."
"Marcus—"
"I mean it, Ruby." He faces me. "Twenty years at this corner, you've kept children safe. But who keeps you?"
"I keep myself."
"Maybe." He moves closer. "But maybe you don't have to anymore."
He kisses me at the corner where I've spent two decades.
Afternoon light, empty street, his hands holding my face like I'm precious.
"My place or yours?" he whispers.
"Mine's closer."
My apartment is small but mine.
He fills it the moment he enters—not with size, but presence. His hands find my uniform, start unbuttoning.
"I've wanted to do this since the first morning," he admits.
"You hid it well."
"Sixty-five years of practice." He smiles. "But I'm done hiding."
He undresses me like I'm a gift.
Each layer revealed, each curve appreciated. When I'm bare, he exhales.
"Lord have mercy."
"That good or bad?"
"That perfect." He kneels before me. "Let me worship properly."
His mouth between my legs is devotion.
Twenty years since anyone touched me there. His tongue is patient, thorough, finding rhythms I forgot I had.
"Marcus—"
"Right there?"
"Don't you stop."
He doesn't stop.
When he enters me, we're both shaking.
Years of loneliness meeting in one moment. He moves slowly, carefully, like we have all the time in the world.
"So good," he groans.
"Don't rush it."
"Never."
Afterward, in my narrow bed, he holds me.
"Move in with me," he says.
"We've known each other three months—"
"I've known you twenty years." He kisses my forehead. "Every morning, every afternoon, watching you protect those kids. I've known your character longer than most marriages last."
The neighborhood notices.
Miss Ruby with Mr. Marcus. The crossing guard and the grandfather. Walking together, eating together, clearly in love.
"About time," one mother says.
"Miss Ruby deserves happiness," another agrees.
The wedding is at the corner.
Right there at my crossing, street blocked off for the afternoon. The children I've protected for years throw flower petals.
"To the guardian of my heart," Marcus toasts.
"To the man who helped me cross," I counter.
We kiss while the neighborhood cheers.
Some love stories happen fast.
Some take twenty years of morning waves.
And some crossing guards find that the most important journey isn't keeping others safe.
It's finally crossing toward happiness yourself.
Green light.
Go.
Forever.