The Man at the Bus Stop Knew My Name and My Schedule

This happened at the bus stop near my apartment, the last stop of the night, where it is usually just me under the one flickering light around eleven.

A man sat down beside me on the bench. Older, ordinary, a coat and a flat cap. He said good evening and used my full first and last name, warmly, like we knew each other. I did not know him. I said, politely, that I was sorry, did we know each other, and he just smiled and kept talking.

He said my street name. He said I lived in the building with the green awning, third floor. He said I worked the late shift and got this bus four nights a week. He said my dog's name, a name I have never put on a collar tag, and asked how the dog's bad hip was doing. He said it all gently, smiling, looking straight ahead at the empty road, as if reciting the details of an old friend.

I have never been so frightened while nothing was technically happening. He never threatened me. He never moved closer. He just knew things about my life that no stranger has any way of knowing, and he clearly wanted me to know that he knew them.

The bus came. I stood up fast. As I got on, he stayed on the bench and said, still smiling, to have a good night, and to give the dog his regards. I rode two stops past mine and walked home the long way, checking behind me the whole time.

I never saw him again. I changed my schedule for a while. I still do not know who he was or how he knew what he knew. I have never been able to convince myself it was nothing, because nothing does not know your dog's name.