On the bus

"Do you know why the eyes of men are always full of desire? It's because there's no limit to Hell or Sin."

Nine a.m. on a tuesday. The man had just stepped out of a bar to untether his bicycle. An air of hope lilts on his voice, like a preacher, or like a man seeking refuge in tried aphorisms once he's given up on his own salvation. "Hell's never full." I sip from my tea, a calming mint and green.

I disbelieve the man, but the sun is too low in its arc to contradict him. Desire, I want to tell him, is not an evil to be purged; It is perhaps the best force in the universe. Though, I admit to myself, misplaced desire is the source of all too many ills in life. The man gives me more tokens for my salvation, and I smile. He's kind enough about it, I hope one day he can find his own. The bus arrives and I board.

"Come by my house." A voice, near the back. "Hit 2, 4, 7. You have ID right? Yeah, come by my House. You can stay there tonight if you want." The reply is garbled, slurred. Not from booze but from some impediment. Perhaps the man has cerebral palsy, perhaps it's just a speech disorder.

"Heh, you thought I was a homo didn't you? You did didn't you?" A smile colors his voice, like flirtation. "I've tried some things. I think eighty percent of men have tried things..." We stop in front of Blanchett House and the man starts to get off. The slurred voice asks him what the number was again. He answers and steps off, grabs his bike and rides away.

The bus pulls out, rolling down fourth avenue once more and turns at the Greyhound station. After Burnside I transfer busses. Looking out the windows I hug my backpack to my chest and it feels comforting.