Commute
The 190 that takes me home is almost always packed to its glassy brim with warm, tired bodies after six in the evening. For forty minutes you will awkwardly squeeze shoulder to shoulder with several strangers not of your choosing, all of them equally unhappy at the thought of spending forty minutes chanelling what little is left of their energy reserves to minimise physical contact in this glorified tuna can of a people mover.
If you are an optimist like me, then it is easy to interpret this discomfort as a gift from the universe because Oh wow! Forty minutes is time eough to forge a lasting friendship with a complete stranger over a shared suffering! Is this not how all time-tested friendships start: a bond over a common enemy? A uniform set of ideals? An app we both have on our iPhones?* Best friends forever!
But then you remember where you are, and you remember that here on planet Earth, most friendships do not traditionally begin with constantly apologising to someone for grinding your ass into his crotch every time the bus runs over a speed bump (although this is useful for making another type of friend). Where conversation and relationships could have blossomed, you instead drum the notes of your favourite Interpol bass line into your collarbone, interspersing every nth note with a public apology on behalf of your wayward ass, and then privately scheming to trick a nice young man with a ride into being your goddamn boyfriend.
*Other girls in middle school, favourite Jeff Goldblum role, Bejeweled, respectively
