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The bus is late, as always. Reki waits impatiently at the bus stop, tapping his foot and whistling a tune that’s been stuck in his head for days. He doesn’t remember where he heard the song. A bright yellow umbrella lays on the ground next to him; he brought it along at his mother’s insistence. Reki usually braves the rain with only a hoodie.
Footsteps approach and Reki stops whistling, nudges the umbrella with his foot, steps back to make room for the pedestrian to pass. But the pedestrian, a tall boy dressed in all grey—grey coat, grey knitted hat, grey gloves—doesn’t pass. He stops and stands next to Reki.
No one has ever joined him at the bus stop.
Reki sneaks another glance at the boy. Wisps of pale blue hair peek out from his hat. He keeps his hands in his pockets and his gaze straight ahead. Reki’s mind begins to whir. Is he supposed to say hello? Strike up a conversation? No one ever waits with him, and so he’s unsure of the etiquette. The bus will be here any moment. The bus will arrive, and there will be no time for conversation. He shouldn’t launch into a conversation that will be interrupted. Better to just stay quiet.
But the bus doesn’t arrive, and surely Reki should at least say hello? He spots the umbrella, still laying by his feet, and before he can stop himself, he says, “It’s going to rain today.”
Startled, the boy flinches and turns his gaze to Reki. He doesn’t say anything, and Reki’s face burns. The boy’s eyes are bright blue, striking in contrast to his grey clothing.
Reki should shut up, but he feels as though he needs to keep going, to save himself, somehow. “You can tell by the clouds,” he adds, pointing to the sky. He’s not sure if this is true. All he knows is that his mom said it was going to rain today. But as he says it, he realizes it must be true; the sky, like the boy’s clothing, is awash with grey. And it is just slightly too warm for snow. So yes, it probably will rain today. Reki is sure of it, in fact.
“I like the rain,” Reki hears himself say. “I know it’s annoying, like when your party gets rained out or it rains so hard it floods. But it’s also, like, water falling from the sky. Sorry, that’s dumb. You know what rain is. Everybody does. Think about it, though. Isn’t it weird that water just falls from the sky? It’s only water, but it can wreck a whole day. I think it’s nice, though. Maybe ‘cause the rain has never wrecked anything for me. I don’t have parties. I like the sound of the rain on the windows.” Reki isn’t one to curl up with a book on a rainy day; he’s more likely to burrow under his blankets and take a nap. “And sun showers, those are my favorite. When it looks like a perfectly nice day but it rains anyway? You never expect it. And it’s like, where did the rain come from? But that’s when you get rainbows. I dunno. I just think it’s nice. No chance of a sun shower today, though. See the sky?” He’s rambling, he’s talking too much, he’s not even saying anything interesting. This isn’t why the other boy came to the bus stop. He doesn’t want to hear Reki’s dumb thoughts about the rain. He’s just waiting to go somewhere else.
But Reki can’t stop himself. The words tumble from his mouth. “I have twin sisters. Not my twins. They’re twins with, you know, with each other. They’re little. One of them hates the rain. We have to drag her outside kicking and screaming, even if it’s just to the car. Sometimes she hides her rainboots and tells us, dead serious, that elves stole them. But the other one, she loves it. She puts her rainboots on whenever she sees a cloud and soon as it starts raining she’s out the door, twirling with her arms out and watching puddles ‘til they’re big enough to jump in. Her, we have to drag inside. She doesn’t even mind the thunder. Or lightning. Really! She says, ‘Look, Reki, the angels are painting the sky!’” He pauses and presses a finger to his chest. “That’s me. I’m Reki. And I’ll ask her why their paintings disappear so fast and she says, ‘the rain washed them away.’ And I dunno if that makes sense, if you think about it too hard, but it’s pretty clever, don’t you think? It’s crazy how kids know to say stuff like that. I could never think of something that clever.”
The grey boy tips his head back and looks at the sky. He nods, once, and Reki doesn’t know what that means. He still hasn’t said anything. Not even hello. This is why it’s weird talking to strangers, Reki thinks. Now this random boy knows what Reki’s sisters think of the rain. Nobody else knows that, outside of his family. Reki thinks of the stuff he says offhandedly to strangers all the time, like when he’s buying sodas or magazines and talks to the cashier, or when he’s walking and stops to pet someone’s dog. He thinks of all the strangers wandering around, knowing weirdly specific facts about people they'll never see again.
The bus still hasn’t arrived. It’s never this late. Reki bounces on his feet and sighs. “I hope the bus shows up soon,” he says. “I hate waiting.”
The boy holds out his hand and catches the first drop of rain. Finally, he speaks. “I didn’t bring an umbrella,” he says, and his voice is low and soft, exactly how Reki imagined it would be.
Reki feels the raindrops now, on his hands and the tip of his nose, and he reaches down for his umbrella. He opens it and holds it up. “You can share mine.” The boy steps under the umbrella, his shoulder brushing against Reki’s. It’s not a very large umbrella. The rain begins to fall harder, tapping the top of the umbrella like someone furiously typing, but they remain dry. Reki doesn’t mind sharing, but he at least wants to know— “Will you tell me your name?”
The boy hesitates and pulls his hands from his pockets. “Langa,” he says. “My name is Langa.”
“Nice to meet you, Langa,” Reki says.
“I like what you said about the rain,” Langa replies.
Reki smiles. “Thanks.”
While they wait, huddled together under the umbrella, Reki whistles again. It’s a different song from before, but he doesn’t remember what this one is from, either. Eventually, the bus arrives, and he closes the umbrella, follows Langa up the stairs. Langa heads to the back. Reki sits in the front and watches the raindrops streak down the window.
***
Without planning to, they meet at the bus stop every day that week, and the following as well. They never say ‘see you tomorrow.’ Reki simply hopes each day that Langa will be there, and sure enough, he is. The bus is always late, or perhaps Reki simply starts arriving earlier. It’s nice to have company, and Reki gets better at knowing what to say. He plans his stories in advance, lining up his thoughts at night before he goes to bed, the way some people lay out their clothes for the next day. Langa doesn’t say much, but he seems to like hearing Reki talk.
Langa wears the same grey clothes, but as the days pass, Reki begins to notice small hints of color. First are his socks, blue and green stripes emerging from the tops of his boots. Next a pink hat with a white pompom on top. A pair of purple mittens. A pale-yellow scarf. Reki does not ask about the colors, and Langa doesn’t mention them.
One day, it is warm enough that Langa arrives without his heavy grey coat. At first, Reki thinks he is someone else. He wears an orange and white striped shirt under a lavender jacket, with blue jeans and scuffed green shoes. Yellow socks peek out between his shoes and the hem of his pants. It’s an awful outfit. Reki loves it.
This time, Langa is the first one to speak. “Do you think it’s going to rain today?”
Reki looks at the sky, clear but for a few clouds. “I don’t think so.”
Langa taps a red umbrella on the ground. Distracted by the bright outfit, Reki hadn’t noticed it in his hand before. “I brought this just in case,” Langa says.
There was a story Reki had planned to tell, but he doesn’t remember it now. Langa has spoken first, thrown off their rhythm. It’s unsettling, but not in a bad way. “Always good to be prepared,” Reki says.
“I was thinking,” Langa says, “That we should go somewhere else.”
Somewhere else. Reki struggles to imagine the two of them anywhere except this sidewalk or on the bus. “Where?” Reki asks.
“I’m not sure,” Langa says.
As Reki searches for an answer, a drop of water lands on his head. He squints at the sky. The sun still shines. “Is it raining?”
Langa already has the umbrella open and holds it over Reki’s head. “Sun shower,” he says.
Neither of them says anything else. The rain continues to fall, and Reki does not need to hope for a rainbow, because he is standing next to one.
“I don’t think the bus is coming,” he says after a while. “Do you want to go somewhere else now?”
“Yes,” Langa replies. The rain slows to a sprinkle, and he closes the umbrella. Reki doesn’t ask why when Langa bends down and drops it on the ground. He understands it is a gift, for another stranger, maybe two.
They set off down the street, their footsteps in sync, standing as close as if they were still under the umbrella. As soon as they turn the corner, the bus arrives. It idles as the driver opens the door and counts to ten before rumbling off to the next stop.