I may have found the love of my life the other day on the bus. Yes, the bus. The one that vaguely hints at the smell of piss and human sweat mixed together into a cloud of cupid’s perfume. It’s been a long four years of loneliness but my heart has been stolen. And boy was he a stud.
I had just gotten off work and as it was raining, decided to hop on the free bus to avoid any unnecessary energy exertion. I found a seat alone about halfway back and sat down, hauling my burgundy snakeskin bag over my lap and crossing my legs in my pencil skirt. And then I heard it.
Assuming it was some cracked out human beginning his or her rant on the next big American conspiracy theory, I politely ignored the voice and stared straight ahead. Then I heard it again.
“Smile! Yes, I’m talking to you!”
So clearly he was talking to me. Because he just said he was talking to me. No ignoring tactic in the world could protect me at this point. And why should it? Already the pull of romance was seeping into my veins.
“Oh, uh, thanks (insert smile to placate him).”
“Now this is just my opinion, but you are gorgeous.”
“Oh, uh, ha, thanks. That’s sweet.”
“How’s your day going?”
“Fine, thanks. Long. How are you?”
“Good. Good. Just got back up here from St. Cloud!”
“Oh that’s nice. What’s in St. Cloud?”
“Well, you know, sometimes you like a place and then things don’t work out so you’ve got to move on.”
“Right. I see.”
“So I’m here and you know what?”
“I was just walking down the street and a steelworker was there and he said, he said to me, he said, ‘what’s the difference between a steelworker and an ironworker’.”
“And I, and I, and I tell you, I looked at him and I just couldn’t think of it. But I knew it! And I got, I got about two blocks and I stopped and turned around and went right back up to him. And I said, ‘the only difference between the two is carbon.’ Carbon. That’s it. One’s in the sky and one’s on the ground. But it’s carbon.”
“There ya go. Carbon. Wow.”
“So I went and applied to be a steelworker. I know how to do it.”
“Oh, congratulations. Good for you.”
“Why thank you. Well what’s your name?”
“Megan.” (I seriously need to come up with a fake name…like Barb or Penny or even Linda. Why my fake names all sound like 50 year old mothers, I have no idea).
“Megan. My name is (insert incoherent name mumble). It’s nice to meet you.”
“I hope to see you around.”
“Yeah, maybe I’ll run into you on the bus.”
“Are you a coffee girl?”
“Uh, yes I am.”
“Well maybe we’ll get some coffee sometime!”
“Uh, yeah maybe I’ll see you on the bus. Bye!” (exits bus at next stop).
And now, here I am a week later and I just can’t stop thinking about that hunk-a-hunk-a-burnin’-love. Somethin’ bout those chipped teeth and rambling sentences just gets my blood pumpin’.
Maybe I’ll one day get the honor to be Mrs. (insert mumbled last name here).
I can hear the bells now.