one year on.

Fallen rain steams up from the asphalt. The traffic surges on through air too-thick-to-breathe in a flow of molten orange and red; the heat is oppressive and the moisture, suffocating, but the pulse of the city throbs heedlessly on.

There is a couple at the far end of the bus stop. Guy with his girl. They are young. Charismatic. Obviously in thrall of each other. She has her back up against the advertisements; he has one hand on the board and the other around her waist.

I can almost feel their pespiration mingling.

He leans in towards her. Oh, I know how it will end. I am no voyeur, but I do not avert my eyes; I cannot.

He makes his move. It reveals an insouciance and a confidence born of familiarity.

I had neither.

----
We made first contact on the waterfront - innocence lost amidst the wetness and warmth of touch. I felt it appropriate. It was consummation of a sort.

I had never been happier in my life.

---
Memories. They do me a great disservice.

My bus pulls up to the stop. Pneumatics hiss. Doors open. I board the vehicle.

I steel my mind. I do not look back.