Another Ride


Dear Eugene,

I worked from home mostly, but once in a while would go to my office, sometimes for a longer stretch for whatever necessary reason.

I would walk to work or take the bus, and if I was to take the bus, like today, rainy, there would always be this face sitting at the exact same spot anytime of the year, at least for the days I was there, which I took as statistically significant.

I call the face Bitter.  It might be unfair for me to close the book on a face with one adjective, but it would be even more so, I think, if I were to start to describe her.  She's often staring at her screen, probably some sort of social media where usually not even an intelligible adjective is needed to paint on our face-book.

I suppose she hopes for change.  But change what?  At her age, probably same as mine, any change is likely a bad change, unwanted irruption that calls our attention to decay, and that is for sure statistically verifiable.  There might be interruptions, seasonal stuffs that the malls remind us of, time to get jolly and believe hope is within reach--if only the bitter ends are well managed well in advance to sustain the potency of another cycle of illusion.  Treadmill and pills in January.

So maybe I misread.  Maybe it's not bitterness, but doubt.  Maybe she is not as unhappy as she looks and things are not as bad as they seem.  Maybe it's really just that she has no reason to trust in anything else otherwise, that any alternative is the same alternative, so might as well stick to what you know best and innovate minimally, good enough to distract and go no further.  Like, do we need new Christmas decorations?  We could reuse last year's.  But let's get some new ones for this year.  No need to ask why.

It's just a bus ride.

Yours, Alex

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