This Afternoon, She Fell Asleep On My Shoulder On The Ride Home. It Was Hot And The Streets Were Noisy,

This afternoon, she fell asleep on my shoulder on the ride home. It was hot and the streets were noisy, but the bus lurched along, in its usual Saturday emptiness. There was her breath on my shoulder, the rattle of the engine; syncopated time. Her hair was soft, like rain. November Rain, I called her. My eyelids were leaden. I was barely alive, but it was the most tender, the most real of things I’d felt in a long, long while.