I take my time getting to you. I rush getting out the door, but once it's locked I slow down. The storm is over and the air is cool, it is a reprieve. The puddles soak through my shoes but I don't mind. Today was payday, direct deposit, I know I'm doing fine. I could get a car, flag a cab, but I decide to take the bus. Its post-storm A/C has always held a strange appeal for me, and it's holding onto it tonight. I don't know who these people are, on the bus so late, a strange combination of to works and from works and students and the destitute, and for a second I wonder what they think of me.
I could pay to get to you, but I don't. And if you're asleep by the time I arrive I suppose I'll have to finish this whiskey myself.
No comments:
Post a Comment