But to ride the bus, is to love the bus.
“Hi Taylor, what did you hit now? Oh OK, as long as no one was hurt.” I would say.
“Paul, look at the extension of Taylor’s leg in this one. I think she nailed this pose, don’t you?”
“Ok Tyra. When was the last oil change?”
Leave it to Paul to kill the moment.
I suppose that sums of the difference between us. I really could care less about the care and feeding of cars while Paul assigns them human characteristics. In his eyes cars are sexy or sporty or scary. Basically, they are Spice Girls on wheels. While to me, they are a way to get from point A to point B; which is why I find myself sitting on the bus with my fellow commuters.
“Before I came to this country I was dependent on others. This country has made me independent. I have my own job. I have my own apartment.”
I smile to myself and stand up to get off at my stop. I choose to believe that these bus comrades see the real me: the content man, the man who sees more to life than just the surface. These are my fellow voyagers in life. I squeeze through the aisle to get to the door, and my messenger bag brushes the knee of a passenger. He makes a great display while saying “Ouch, watch your bag man!” Then I understand what my fellow passengers see in me. It is not so much of a visionary in love, but more of an annoyance.