Strangers

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It was the ’70s.  They left in convoy on a Friday night. Ten, sometimes more, in a row.  One after another. Express coaches between London and Edinburgh.

I met him in one of the buses, on the way back home.  I had the window seat. He was in the aisle. Tall and lanky with gorgeous brown eyes and thick brown hair. He came from Middlesex and had a beard. Soft spoken. He was a photographer and showed me his portfolio.  Wonderful black and white images of the Thames shoreline. Beautiful character studies of people he had seen on his wanderings.

We shared a blanket.  We talked softly.  We shared kisses.  I took him home.  We wandered the Royal Mile next day and roamed the hillsides of Arthur’s Seat in Edinburgh.  He had a gentle smile and a soft voice.  We parted friends.  I often wonder where he is now.

We had been strangers on the overnight bus.

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