The Wake

I put out my cigarette on the bus door, spewing my own poison out, and inhaling the toxic fumes outside, and think of the pollution now filling my lungs. I chastize corporate America internally, silently: Crying, “Swine, give me a chance to taste my own life. My love. My essence.” Digressing, my foot swings me up onto the bus.

I thought of her when I saw him. Coughing, stinking, fidgeting. I want to hold him as I held her, but I do not want to make the same mistake again. Ambiguity aside, I sit across from him, watching his moves.

He speaks in tongues; the Heavenly words I sought to hear from her so often. She would not even perform this simple act for me—she said she was blessed once, by me, by the gift of my mere presence. Her lies lie encrypted in her tongues. I, her interpreter, am a reflection and reminder of her falsities.

The man’s face reflects in the darkened midnight glass, a public mirror for passersby to see him and wonder, “Is his face mine? Am I him?” I can see him, also, but I see him from my seat, and I can smell him, his scent wafting into my nostrils. The smell is reminiscent of her—fish mixed with cigarettes and intimacy: My security. Blood rushes to my cheeks and I slide myself towards the edge of my seat, hoping to put a hand on his shoulder and slide my finger down, playing back his tune like a needle on a turntable.

He pulls away, though. Chanting his noble tune, he pushes the red lever by the window, shoves the glass, and rolls onto the street with a quiet thud. I will not miss him, now. He did exactly what she did, what she was always good at: Abandoning.