early morning postcard (story)

He must be in love. Yesterday he waited with the same sardonic neutrality that you cultivate at bus stops. Today his face softly welcomes everything.

He arranges litter and concrete fragments with his toe. You hunt for the bus’s bleary tiara of lights. When you love, it’s furious. Your glance strikes fires. Your eyes seethe with reflections.

Traitor to the morning wait--to averted eyes and stance, to the ride's shared indifference, to unnoticed departures at indistinguishable stops--he even smiles at you.

His softness is tinder. You glare. What’s his name? Who does he love? Why isn’t it you?

{rf}