Door 13

Microfiction

Photo by JESHOOTS.COM on Unsplash

The board said three minutes. Two. My strides got bigger as I approached door 13.

The bus stood there, ready to depart.

Roger was sitting at the bench, waiting, in the same spot as always.

I wanted to sit in silence the 17 minutes it took to get home, needed it, too tired to listen to his booze smelling rambling.

Why was he still sitting? Head in a weird angle.

One minute.

Face white, almost blue.

The door hissed shut and I saw Rogers’s body through the mirrored 13 as the bus backed out.

Someone else’s problem now.