WHITE SHADOWS SASHA PERRY LINES OF RED AND YELLOW AND GREEN PAINT ON THE GLASS WINDOW. BILL IS A PAINTER AND DOES NOT EVEN KNOW IT. REFLECTIONS OF REFLECTIONS GLARE, ANGRY AT THE INTERRUPTION IN THEIR SECRET WORLD. GLASS RATTLES, PLANNING AN ESCAPE. WHITE SHADOWS, AS GHOSTS, DANCE IN AND OUT OF SIGHT; NOTICED, BUT NOT NOTED. 9:04 on the dot, pulling up to the blue bench. “Good evening, Bill.” I tried to remember how I knew his name. I searched through my compartment file of memories. He wore the same denim-‐colored polo with khakis nearly every time I saw him. Sometimes, his receding hairline was masked with a plain black baseball cap, so worn that you could see the white material peeking out of the corners of the bill. I racked my brain for a potential name-‐tag, maybe his name on a lunch bag? Nothing came to my mind. Maybe his name was not even Bill. Perhaps it was James and he is just too shy to correct me. Maybe I asked him his name? No, Bill never answered my questions. I would remember if he had. Bill sometimes smiled in response, but he rarely said anything in return. He spoke in low whispers, trying to form phrases that became awkward masterpieces. Generally, a polite head nod was his retort. Despite his general apprehension towards conversation, he was the timeliest man. Every night, at precisely 9:04, a bright number “42” penetrated the night, Bill’s folded face mismatched right below.