Congratulations Weeping Man on the Bus!

When the bus driver calls out the Rosedale Mall stop, you'll think of her right away: square, flat ass pounding against itself as she trotted in place on the Dance Dance Revolution machine.  You'll think of her oversized t-shirts, her yoga pants, her nails, always impeccably done, and her hair, always unwashed, the stink of it clear from three, four meters back from the machine.  You'll think of her and her graceless, artless movements and the love you once shared and you will do the only thing you can manage to do: you'll weep.

Your tears will spill down your face even as you try to chew the mouthful of apple, still stuck between your teeth.  Your tears will tumble over your cheeks even as the driver, moving at a speed far slower than your memories, finishes his sentence, informing you that this will be the last stop for the day and that all passengers must leave the bus.  Your tears will spill down your face as you stand up and try to shuffle off the bus past the distracted mass of passengers, nearly all of whom will slow down as they try to assess just what is wrong with you, with your eyes, with the tears coming out of them.

When you finally leave the bus, when you're finally off, the sunlight will be almost uncomfortably warm.  Your tears, those that remain on your cheeks, will be drying, dying on your face before they ever get a chance to reach the ground, like the love you shared with her, like your career as DDR Dance Partners, like the idea of a professional DDR couple, all these things will have died long, long before they ever had their time in the space between your face and the pavement that lines the path to the Payless Shoe Store, where you hope to find a pair of skate shoes for under twenty dollars with decent arch support.

Congratulations Weeping Man on the Bus!