I ride it everywhere.



On the packed greyhound bus to toronto last friday, I sat next to a beautiful boy... maybe eighteen or nineteen who had a big backpackers pack and patches on his jacket.

We didn't say anything when he sat down. But our knees touched, and he leaned forward into his bag and pulled out a red envelope. The name on the front was Polish, but the address was in quebec.
He opened it without trying to conceal the letter from me. Maybe he didn't know that I could see it. It was written in neat round cursive, in french. Maybe he thought I wouldn't understand.

Mon cher... tu sera toujours mon meilleur ami... je te manque... retournez chez moi... j'taime avec tout mon coeur... j'attends mon cheri... quands retournez vous a montreal? j'taime, cher ami ....

After he'd finished reading, he didn't say anything. He just carefully folded the note, and put it back in its red envelope, and leaned his forehead on the seat in front of him. After awhile, he put his head on my shoulder and fell asleep.

We woke up in Torontoa couple of hours later. I didn't say anything to him as we got our bags. Last I saw he was walking toward an escalator, with the letter in his hand.