I Love You

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just you and me
on this island of hope
a breath between us could be miles
Every day, it's always the same. At exactly 8:10am, I walk out my front door, jacket and leather case in hand. If it weren't for weekends, I'd have forgotten what the words 'sleep in' mean.

It's not easy being in business. Especially when you're someone like me.

The bus-stop isn't far from my front-door, just enough distance to worry about getting my shoes dirty. They cost me a small fortune. Almost as much as my glasses; I don't see why wire frames have to be more expensive than the rest. Just a fact of life I suppose.

The western suburbs aren't really that bad a place to live, a few years ago – when I found a house that was half-worth the mortgage I had to take out – this part of town was considered something of a hole. Until the wealthy decided to buy up the empty lots at the top of the street, then it became the only place to live. Lucky me. My address got me my job. If I hadn't have lived in the western suburbs, then Beresfod Communications would have trashed my resumé the second I was out of the director's office.

It's not the simplest life in the world, but it's mine, so I deal with it as best I can.

The bus won't come for at least another ten minutes or so, but I don't really care. If I left it any later, I'd miss seeing him walk down the road, towards the shelter. Towards me. I can never stop the tiny smile, that would stretch to meet my ears if I didn't already know how to control it. I know who he is – or was. It's been a long while since his face has smiled out at me from the confines of a TV screen. But even after so many years, I still recognised him. His hair's cut shorter, and instead of blond, now it's brown, almost the same colour as his eyes. As good a way as any to escape being noticed. I guess it must work pretty well; a lot of people never saw past the hair. To most he was just the hyper little drummer, forgotten as the trends moved on. But I never forgot him, and it didn't surprise me after all this time that I still remembered his name.

Zachary.

I've never called him that, the only words we've shared are polite 'hello's, nods of greeting and acknowledgment. The silence is never strained, as it might be between strangers. I always try not to stare, but my eyes have never taken much notice of me before. Whenever he stands near me, the outside just disappears into the mist. All that exists in my world is contained within the small bus-shelter. Just Zachary and myself, drifting in an ocean of sights and sounds and otherwise useless information.

He doesn't smile. That's the one thing I've noticed. Those who bothered to look past the hair and the hyperactivity were blessed with a smile that captured many hearts, including mine. In the weeks that we've stood together in the shelter, I've not seen even a shadow of his youthful smile, once bright enough to light up a room. His face is a mask, but lying underneath is a waryness that I wouldn't have expected in someone who literally grew up on the pages of Teen Beat; the tension in his shoulders, the inadvertent shifting from foot to foot, the subtle restlessness, they add up to nervousness. But that doesn't explain the sadness I can sense as much as a coming storm.

It's not easy being perceptive. Especially when you're someone like me.

It's a wonder that I can never find the courage to speak up. What he's looking for is a sense of repose; a sea that's waves massage the unease from his shore. If I could, I'd evolve into water and surround him, I'd be the calm he's seeking so relentlessly to find. I'll gladly be anything he wants me to be. . . . We stand less than two feet apart. It might as well be miles.

Every day, it's always the same. There's too much I can't say.

His bus comes before mine. At exactly 8:16am, number 72 pulls up beside the small shelter, its doors opening with a hiss. Without a backward glance, he walks away.
"Where to?"
"Town please,"
The doors close on the sound of his polite, but distant voice. Even now, I haven't fully analysed the sigh that wants to escape my throat when I hear those two words.

Number 9 is never very far away, but it's not punctual. Not like number 72. Sometimes it comes at 8:17am, sometimes at 8:24am. Once it stopped for me at 8:31am. A good maxim for life is never trust the public bus companies. But the driver knows me, so any annoyance is always hidden behind a smiling façade of patience.
"Where to today?"
"Same as usual thanks Ted," I hand him two dollars and he hands me the change. There's hardly anyone on this bus, nothing eventful ever happens. The office really isn't that far away from my 'high-class' address; too close to drive, too far to walk. Only God knows why I bought a car in the first place, when I'm always catching the bus. The only time I use the second-hand Chev, easily on its last legs, is to drive out to the olds' house every third Sunday of the month for a baked dinner and poker. The members of my family are all avid card players.

(My stop. Ring the bell, stand up, walk to the front of the bus.)

Who knows, maybe one day I'll find my voice in the small bus-shelter, then maybe Zachary and I could drive out there together –
"Thanks Ted,"
"Anytime. Don't you work too hard now Jeff,"
– Although I doubt my mother'd be very impressed.

It's not easy being in love. Especially when you're someone like me.


and I forgot
to tell you, I love you


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