Ancraophobia

Everyday he leaves the house with a scarf tied over his mouth and nose, like an outlaw from the wild west. This is after he spends the first hour of his morning peeking between the blinds. He stares intently at the trees. In the winter he has to rely on the swaying of stripped branches. When they wave to him it is to say the coast isn't clear. Their stillness invites him out. If he can get to the bus all will be well, he reminds himself. He pulls the drawstrings of the hoodie tight. Extra insurance. A walk evolves into a jog, into a full-out sprint when the bus is approaching the light before the stop. The stoplight betrays him, allowing itself to turn green. The bus's passage is uninterrupted. He creates what he fears most as he rushes past less concerned walkers, whipping them with a brief rush of air. There is no one else at the stop and the driver doesn't see his running. He holds out a desperate hand, like a lover calling out. He coughs on the exhaust. The schedule says he has to wait fifteen minutes. No sooner does he sit down do the trees being to sway. A gale bends their branches and buffets him with a cold roar. He curls in on himself on the bench, head buried in his knees. He hopes the bus comes before the wind strips away his clothes and steals everything.