Bus Love

In the interests of my own emotional survival, I've cultivated a bus crush. If I take the bus to work at a certain time, or back eight hours later, I'll see him. Pale, bearded, probably undernourished, he'll be reading a book. I'll open mine in sympathy.

After six weeks, that's the level of intimacy we've achieved.

And I'm fine with that.

If I actually had to talk to him, and find out what he was reading, it could ruin everything. He could be gay, married, gay and married, or worst of all, be in the middle of reading a terrible book. My love is strong and true, but probably not strong enough to survive Atlas Shrugged. I would also have to confront the fact that my passion is one of convenience. Ever since I slung books at my university bookstore, I've nurtured crushes on coworkers, as a patch whenever the work, or even the paycheque, was not enough. Unfortunately, this didn't work out so well in Victoria, where I had no office options, few local options, and probably ended up fixated on a longboarder because of all that. I have a similar problem with my current job, but the Commuting Reader seems to be the solution.

I just pray he never buys a car.