The cold breeze nibbled on my fingertips and on the lobes of my ears and on my nose. After twenty minutes of waiting for a bus, at a shelterless stop, I wished I had a car. Every time Mrs. Mallard nagged me about spending the money on a car so I could take her to the bank, I told her I’d rather waste the money elsewhere. The cumulative cost of insurance, repairs and gas never seemed worth it, except for the days the temperature dropped below minus ten.
Tracks lead through the snow, down the hill behind me, where I saw three coyotes running into the darkness. I sat at the bench and pinned my hands between my knees, and thought about how much I hated Calgary’s transit and weather. Why could there not be a bus every ten minutes on a weekend? Why could there not be a heated shelter; well at least a shelter to block the wind. If I turned into an ice statue I would blame it on the city.