“I have to pick up my wife,” the man says to me, without provocation.

“O..k?”

“I know, why would I tell a perfect stranger that I have to pick up my wife. On the bus of all places. Do you know what kind of people ride a bus? Well, I ride a bus, and so do you and you don’t look like a bad person. Well, not too bad anyway. Did you know buses were invented in Germany? I don’t know why but that just seems like a very German thing to invent doesn’t it?”

My face must betray my confusion, because his expression contorts into a sort of sympathetic half-frown. “I have to pick up my wife,” he offers again, as explanation. “But I don’t always remember so well. I get—distracted.”

“I’m sorry,” I reply, still not entirely sure what it is that I’m apologizing for.

“Had an accident,” he admits, shamefully. “Hurt my head. I don’t usually leave the house, but my wife, she..” he trails off, shifting his gaze to the windows.

“She what?” I press.

He stares at me, blankly.

“Something about your wife?”

“Ah,” he smiles, almost sadly. “She’s from the city, you know. Right around here. We were going to live here after we graduated, but then we got pregnant, and you know how that goes. Moved to the suburbs and never looked back.”

My concern growing, I try to steer him back to the point. “I’m sorry, sir, but it seems like you may have been telling me that something happened to your wife?”

I see the recognition this time, almost as if his pupils come into sharper focus. “Oh,” he chuckles softly, “I’m sorry, I get distracted sometimes. My wife, she had a heart attack at the bank today. I don’t usually leave the house, but the man on the phone said to get there right away.”

“Oh, sir, let me help you. What hospital is she at?”

“Mercy Street Baptist.”

“Mercy Street Bap—didn’t that place…”

“I hope she’s ok. I already know what she’ll say. She’ll say it just figures I’d die two weeks before the world ends. It just figures.”

“Two weeks before the—“

“I keep telling her that Mayan stuff is baloney, but she won’t listen. She’s gonna be embarrassed when we wake up the day after. I’ll tell you that for free.”

“Mayan. End of the world. But wasnt that December 2012?”

“Yeah, in two weeks. According to my wife, anyway.” He pauses again to watch the bright lights of a cinema marquee come and go. “I hope she’s ok.”

A knot wells in my throat, and my chest feels tight. The driver announces “Broadway,” and I hear myself say, “I’m sorry, this is my stop.” He smiles, amiably enough.

As I walk to the door, out of the corner of my eye I see a newly boarded passenger sitting down beside him. She nods perfunctorily.

“I have to go pick up my wife,” he tells her, unprovoked.