Man At a Bus Stop

  Today was the day, the darkest day. The sun was out, high in the sky. But neither the shine nor the warmth could reach me. Never in my life have I seen so many gray clouds. There was a chill; haunting, lingering oppressively.
  If ever there was a song or piece of music that could elicit my feelings, it would be the tune of taps on a minor scale.
  The park bench felt like a gun being shoved into my back. And the pain was excruciating. Today felt like a day of death. If the pain didn’t kill me, then waiting for the bus would. I kept feeling that acidic taste in my mouth that you get when something bad is about to happen. Or does happen.
  The cars dragged down the street in the way that blood drips from a corpse. And the sun peaked through the clouds in the way it always did when Jake and I played like little kids in the backyard. With a sigh of exasperation, I set my hand on my chin and started to make that goofy face that always made little Jake laugh. But it was when I felt the rough gray hairs that I realized that those moments had run away from me like a soldier runs for his life.
  Here came the ole’ rusty fiend. Long awaited, but here in a moment. The bus slowed to a shrieking halt. Cutting deep into my daydream, tearing through what I wished was reality. And I winced when I saw the shiny container on the under-belly of the bus beginning to drip thick, wine colored oil. With a final breath I stepped onto the bus. And with a choked cough, we were off.