There is crying in football, sobbing actually

“Morning,” the bus driver said. I noticed he had omitted the “good” and I was grateful. We sat in silence, joined in sadness. The bus wasn’t scheduled to leave for another two minutes. More unendurable waiting.

“Can you just drive?” I asked. “I mean, somewhere else.”

He was reading the Globe, full of bad, bad news. “Yeah,” he said. “Let’s go.”

We agreed on Florida–it’s warm and a long enough drive to allow for uninterrupted sobbing–but as the bus lumbered down the street, I saw that he was just humoring me. We were taking our normal route to the city, as if he thought I were kidding. As if he thought I could be remotely useful in my job today. As if he thought I had any reason at all to live.

Forget it. I don’t want to talk about it.

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One thought on “There is crying in football, sobbing actually

  1. I really like this, believe it or not. I mean, you just get on a bus and tell the guy where you want to go. Florida? Why not! It doesn’t matter that you’re actually in Tennessee at the time, or that the driver is new, and hasn’t actually driven out-of-state before. He asks if you think he should bring just the one spare tire, or one spare for all the wheels. It’s a harder decision than you might think–and, of course, the answer depends on what else, or who else, might be on the bus!

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