“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.
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