Bus stories

The man walked in front of the bus just as it was pulling in. The bus came so close to hurt him that I cried "Attention!" reversing to French under the emergency of the situation. He turned around and the flowers he was carrying turned with him. A magnificent bouquet. He smiled. I stepped into the bus and the driver welcomed me by a "What a lucky guy!" I nodded in agreement, thinking about the flowers.

Maybe two minutes into the bus trip, the woman in front of me turns around and asks what bus this is.
"42." I said. She seems reassured. "There is no other bus at the stop we both came in" I add, fearing suddenly that she would find strange that I noticed at what stop she came in. Nothing of the sort. Her smile broadens. "Perfect" she says, "because I always forget to look". 42. That's the answer.

Across the aisle, there is a guy with headphones on. He is in his mid-thirties, maybe a bit younger. He has blond, thin hair. Glasses with a metal frame. Suit and tie. A dark blue shirt.
He is listening to some music and directing an imaginary orchestra. His gestures, his seriousness. All is there. He shuts up the violins, brings in the brass and encourages the flute to step in. He goes from a simple extended arm to a sensual caress that is meant for an expert musician but received by a man with dirty pants, half asleep right in front of him. When he gets out a couple of minutes later, he seems surprised by the mere existence of the fast food restaurant in front of the bus stop.
I see him looking around before walking down a dark street nearby.