The Last Bus Home – Part 2: Sunrise Line

No taxi came. Neither of them mentioned it.

They talked until the stars wheeled round and the sand grew cold. About the ward where Sipho worked, the funny patients and the sad ones. About the novel Daniel had been writing for six years and never showed anyone. About the lives they had planned and the ones they actually had.

At four, Sipho shivered, and Daniel put his jacket around his shoulders without comment. It smelled of coffee and old paper.

"You're not an inconvenience," said Daniel, quietly. "I should say that. In case you're about to apologise."

"I was about to apologise."

"Don't."

A line of pale gold lifted on the horizon. The waves turned from black to pewter. The first gulls began to cry.

"Can I ask you something?" said Sipho.

"Yes."

"May I kiss you? Before the bus comes?"

Daniel smiled, shy and sudden. "Yes," he said. "And if you say stop, you must read my first chapter."

"That sounds like a reward."

"It's terrible."

"I'll be honest."

"That's the punishment," said Daniel, and leaned in.

They kissed, gently, in the grey dawn, Sipho's hand rising to Daniel's stubbled cheek. It tasted of ginger and salt. Daniel's arms slid round him with quiet certainty. The surf rolled in, steady, and the horizon turned to fire.

When they parted, both of them were smiling.

"Green?" asked Daniel.

"Green," said Sipho. "Very green."

The first bus of the morning arrived at six-ten. They sat together on the back seat, and this time neither of them fell asleep.

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