would’ve buckled in half and broken out in tears. But I stopped crying when I kept finding myself crying alone.
Outside, just below my window, I watched the porter pull a man’s bags out from under the storage compartment. Someone was getting off. Palm Springs must’ve been his home. When the man took his bag from the porter, I watched him slip away on foot, alone, across a dirt lot into God knows where. No one came to pick him up or give him a ride. Did God even keep tabs on all the people traveling by bus? Was there a patron saint of Greyhound riders that protected us?
In my mind I pictured the innocent bear fishing them both from that frothy stream. They were gasping for air, their mouths full of ice-cold water, trying to get away. That was possibly the only California that would’ve made sense to me.