“Sir, if you will wait one moment, I’ll be right with you.”  I wanted to yell at the woman “No, I won’t wait! This is an emergency!” but I didn’t want to have to explain that my wife had left me on one of her company’s buses.

“Thank you for waiting, sir.  How may I help you?”  She smiled at me genuinely, and I realized I didn’t know exactly what I wanted to know.

“Do you have any buses leaving for the east coast?”  I tried to act calm, but I am sure my inner emotions were coming through.

“No, sir, we had one bus leave for New York earlier today, but our next connection isn’t until Saturday at 4:00pm, which is a bus to Atlanta.”

New York.  “What time did your New York bus leave?”  I didn’t really want to know the answer to that question, but I had to ask.

“Two o’clock, sir.  It’s a once-a-week connection, so I can book you for next week’s trip if you would like.

“No, thanks.”

Twenty minutes later I found myself in the bathroom, trying to read the blue spray paint on the wall over the urinal.  I couldn’t cry, not yet.  It wasn’t real enough.

It was a week before I knew what I wanted to do about Molly.  A week of panic attacks interspersed with fear and anger.  I had come up with the perfect plan.  I wasn't interested in getting her back anymore.  Just getting back at her.

I ran my finger across the trigger of the revolver in my pocket.  I'm still not sure why I chose the bus station bathroom, except that it is the first place I began to resent Molly and what she did.  Something about this place made it the perfect place for my response.  Things were beginning to clear, and I began to see myself in the reflection of the mirror.