Ships in the Night

I’m sliding down King St on the bus in the rain. My chin on my fist, I glimpse a man drinking one of those new Vs that come in an orange can as the bus momentarily slows. “What does it taste like, exactly?”, I want to yell at him. “I’ve seen ads for it at bus stops but I’m confused, is it completely not an orange taste, or what?” But my bus is the type with windows that don’t open, and I don’t have the idea of writing the question on a piece of paper and holding it up to the window until it comes to me in a dream years afterward. And the bus pulls away, leaving orange V man and my questions behind. I think I will not see him again, except, perhaps, in another life.

Tags: utter futility, tomorrow’s promises, rain as mouthwash for our sugary cavities