Translated by Wendy Cross

7:23 a.m.
Since September, every 7:23 a.m. has been the same. First, the dull sound of an engine, then the headlights piercing the dark. The bus slows, then stops. The doors open in front of me.
"Good morning!"
I get on. Sit down. Journey. Arrival.
I get off. The day happens.
5:48 p.m.: return journey.
"Good evening!"
Sit down, journey, arrival.
Five months.

New Year. Back again after the festivities. I hate the holidays. Rituals interrupted.
January. Cold. 7:23 a.m. Engine in the distance, headlights, I get on.
"Happy New Year!"
She looks up. At last...
For five months, I've been watching her drive this bus. Watching out for her every morning and every evening.
"Thank you, same to you."
A smile, a glance. I sit down not too far from her. I have already spent a lot of time watching her drive this bus. Quite curious to see her hands, so tiny on such a big steering wheel. Focused, careful, skillful. Beautiful. For weeks I have been studying the back of her head, her moods, her outfits, her hairstyles, her driving habits. One morning the image of the back of her neck, her soft hair, stayed in my mind. After that it never left me.
This is my New Year's resolution: to talk to her, to make contact with her, to go out with her.
"Happy New Year!" At least she looked at me. And replied. Baby steps.
What can I find to say tomorrow? That I have a thing for female bus drivers? That I would like to see her standing up and not always sitting behind that steering wheel? That perhaps...if she would like? No, it's too soon, I must engage in conversation. Closer. Remain standing up? Next to her.

February. This morning, the alarm clock did not go off.
Forgot my bus pass. Too late.
"Go ahead and sit down," she says. "After all this time, I know you well enough!"
She knows me!
I stammer a thank you.
She knows me... That's a good start. I go and sit down. Broken alarm clock? A missed chance? Or a success?
5:48 p.m.: return journey.
"Still no bus pass, sir?"
"I'll try and do better tomorrow!"
A broad smile of complicity.
"Good night. See you tomorrow."
She said "See you tomorrow!" and not "Goodbye" or "Goodnight" or something like that, but "See you tomorrow!"
Tomorrow, I'll take her a little something. To thank her for having let me on for free without my bus pass. Or...I'll see tomorrow.

7:20, 21, 22, 23 a.m.
7:25 a.m.
She's late.
She's never late.
7:29 a.m.
Engine, headlights, brakes. Doors opening.
I sing out, "I've got my card!"
A sort of sinister-looking bald guy is staring at me; I am distraught and dumbfounded.
"You seem really pleased about that!" he replies.
It is early, and he is already sweating quite heavily, his cheap aftershave not succeeding in masking the smell. From the place where I quickly sat down, I can see his arms crushing the steering wheel, and rolls of fat creasing his neck.
My bag weighs a ton, my feet too. Awful day. Horrible weather. Everyone rubs me the wrong way.
5:48 p.m.: return journey.
The same guy recognizes me and gives me a mocking smile with one move of his unpleasant chin.
I hate taking the bus. I've arrived. I get off. The silhouette of a back. I know that back. She turns round.
"It's my day off," she says. "So are we going to grab that coffee together?"
The following day, I had to hold myself back from kissing the bald guy as he swung open the doors to the bus.
And that, you see, is how I met your mother.

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