By now, I’ll have spent twice as much time on this bus than in class.

Through the win­dows, the world is streaked and muddy, and it looks like god has turned on the lights out­side, it’s so bright. These goose­bumps aren’t from the cold. It’s the music, loud and full in the ears, that shivers.

The home­less ask for quar­ters with an apol­ogy for inter­rupt­ing your music. It’s as if the cold has turned their bit­ter­ness to des­per­a­tion, and we get a lit­tle polite­ness in return. No sign of my lost girl, just a man in her spot with too many bags, a frumpy hat, and two old paper­backs that he never opens.

My socks are soaked through at the ankles, and all I can think of is how good it’ll feel to peel them off and jump in the shower. Or how good my won­ton soup will taste when I even­tu­ally get home. Or how con­ve­nient it’ll be to just take off and drive next time, instead of wait­ing out­side for the bus.

I may be wet and cold, but I’m going some­where nice. That’s enough to keep the spirit warm.

I miss this. I miss being alone among peo­ple. I miss being forced to read, or write, or do nothing.

I don’t do this often enough.