Late Night Bus

Cambridge streets slick with rain, looking like the city pissed itself and gave up.

12:16 a.m.

The last bus coughs and farts outside The Emperor, waiting for the drunks to stumble out with their smeared lipstick and broken dreams. A few lonely bastards from the all-night coffee hole line up quiet, heads down, while some pair of kids grope and giggle like they just invented fucking.

We roll past Terrington House, that optician joint where nobody can see straight anyway, then Zara and H&M full of clothes for people who still believe in tomorrow.

Heading home to a bowl of carrot and coriander soup, a hunk of bread hard as a landlord’s heart, a splash of cheap sherry because why the hell not. Iron a couple shirts that won’t save me, open a book I won’t finish.

Then the long stare at the wall.
Time alone.
Thinking about the next move.
Divorce coming like a slow freight train I can already smell the diesel on.