There was a fat woman in front of me and a man behind me with hair like Lyle Lovett. Only it was raining so I kept kind of turning around to see if his hair still stood up, to see if maybe I could catch his eye and we could exchange a glance of what the fuck are we doing standing in line for the bus here on the sidewalk when there is a perfectly dry empty bus shelter not ten feet away? I mean, am I right Texas Bluegrass man who once wed a barefoot Julie Roberts? But he wouldn't look at me and the woman never once turned around. It was 7:13am. To be fair we all had umbrellas, a line of black compact nylon bat wings suspended in mid-flight commuting, the metal tips dripping splat off the ribs and onto the person behind. At 7:17 it began to hail. This was yesterday morning, and I hate myself for not moving.
But these are the rules, I tell myself. For some reason we line up along the sidewalk to wait for the bus, rain or shine in one straight line, and then we board and no one talks.
I should have said something, I think, at the very least. Like hey isn't this stupid? I should have moved beneath the shelter or told the woman her purse was getting soaked instead of standing there watching the rain drip down the back of her wide black trenchcoat. I should have turned around and kissed the man whose hair stood up even though I cannot name any of Lyle Lovett's songs and don't kiss strange men much less strange men in the morning at the bus stop. The point is: I should have done something.
But I didn't, and I probably won't tomorrow when I go to work; the weather calls for yet more rain. It's exhausting to worry about what people think of me all of the goddamn time.
Lately, I suppose, I have been feeling quiet inside, an indifferent hm of a fridge at night. There is a silence to be found in line.
This is old but beautiful nonetheless.
Yesterday afternoon I bought a leopard print umbrella.
It's almost Friday.