I hate my job. Waking up early and coming home late to nothing. No wife. No kids. Just empty longings waiting to be filled, knowing they never will be. It’s a vicious cycle of going to work to make next to nothing, just to come home to nothing. I have nothing to love, nobody to love. My thoughts are in tune with the dripping of the coffee maker. Filling the cup, just to be emptied by my thirst.
     It takes all my strength to look at the clock. Mockingly it reads 6:45. I twist the cap on my thermos and grab an umbrella. As I step outside I pause to take in the black and white world around me. The rain leaves the air heavy and hazy. I fuss with a button on my jacket and head off to the bus stop.
     The rain has slowed to a drizzle and I can see the shy sun working up enough confidence to peak out. I pass the alley where shadows sit in the darkness waiting for their prey. I pass by the usual people, who wave to me from their cars on the way to work. I’m not jealous. All the extra payments each month--not to mention gas prices, don’t attract me. The coffee makes me jittery and anxious. I only drink it because it makes me feel grown up, like I fit in. The rain stops altogether and I put down my umbrella. I shake it off as if the raindrops are my worries. I take a deep breath.
     The bus stop is coming up. A stray cat runs out from behind a soggy box. It distracts me, but only for a moment. I become wary when I see a figure sleeping at the bus stop. This is a sketchy area and you can’t be too cautious. As I approach I see it’s a woman, early twenties maybe. I make sure to stand on the outside of the bus stop cover, as to keep my distance, and so I don’t wake her up.

    I open my eyes, and it takes a minute before the blurred outlines of the orange sky come into focus. I pat myself down, thankful I wasn’t pickpocketed. I was hoping a fellow “person of the streets” would understand my situation. Though I was covered, I’m still damp and shivering. I can’t believe it took me this long to notice there is a man standing near the bus stop. I sit up and look at the sky.
    I take a minute to collect my thoughts. I run my fingers through my unwashed hair. I suddenly feel embarrassed. I probably smell like the alley, and I Iook like I’m from the alley. The man walks over. My mind is buzzing like a million office workers typing furiously.
“Good morning, um, my name is Stevie.”
“Hi I’m Diane.” I say slurred as if it’s one long word. His nervous smile eases me. He seems harmless. He embodies the definition of the word scrawny. Pale brown eyes, musty blonde hair, thinnest build I’ve ever seen. Awkwardly, his lanky arm reaches out to shake my hand. I appear to be harmonious yet passive, but inside I am a mess.
    We sit with the previous exchange still lingering in the heavy air.
“Crazy weather right?” He says half smiling.“Yeah.” I reply shortly. I am not succeeding at coming across as calm and collected. There is something in his eyes that is recognizable to me. Longing, hunger for something to fill a void which distracts me.
    The bus pulls up. I want to know more about Stevie. There is something behind his awkward exterior. I follow him on. Playing it off like I was planning to take this bus all along, even though I don’t know it’s destination. It’s okay though, I don’t need a destination.
It will cost me a precious two dollars, but I am willing to make a sacrifice. My instincts are telling me to.

     I think she said her name was Diane. She was very timid. Like a cat you are meeting for the first time. You hold out your hand so it can get to know you, but it turns away. She doesn’t seem like the kind of girl who sleeps on bus stop benches. You can’t judge a book by its cover though. Her long, beige, button up coat gets ruffled as she sits down almost next to me. She leaves one seat between us. Now I notice her hair is wet and messy, she must’ve been out there longer than I thought. I take in her appearance. So average, yet so unique. Average height and weight, but her combination of light brown hair and blues eyes attracts me.
    She finally starts the conversation.
“Where are you heading to?” The question makes me shrink back. “Work.” I reply in one monotonous tone. The word brings forward the image of fingernails on a chalkboard. “Where are you heading?” I ask returning the question.
   “Um, work too.” She hesitates. We sit in silence until I can’t hold it in anymore,
“I’m done. I’m quitting. I can’t continue living like this.” I don’t know if I feel relieved, or even more muddled.
She then proceeds to explain all of the misfortunes that have plagued her within the last week. I am blown away by her composure through it all. I am listening intently, like a child attentive while his teacher reads a book. But this time I am genuinely listening.
    There is a connection. A connection deeper than physicality. I ruminate our similar mindsets.

    My walls have been torn down by my blind trust. This is the fastest I’ve ever opened up to someone, let alone a stranger. Although a flood of emotions--negative and positive--burst through the folds of my mind, I manage to keep my poise. My entire existence seems to have changed after meeting this man.
    We gradually reveal our abilities. As we opened up to each other I learned that he is a musician at heart. I admire that about him, because I can’t play an instrument to save my life. I am a waitress-or was. So cliche. But I loved my job, getting to be with people, memorizing the dishes so that I could answer any question. It kept me going. Now I float around, empty, nothing to look forward to. You don’t miss it until it’s gone.
    Stevie, on the other hand, can’t stand his job. I reach out to him. One of the hardest things to do on this Earth is finding the balance between necessities, and passions. They go together hand in hand; you must work in order to fulfil your passion. You must fulfil your passion in order to tolerate work. I’ve been in his shoes. You learn you have to find the good things in the bad to keep you going. Times are tough, but they can’t get worse.

    Diane was a waitress. I’ve worked in a cubicle my whole life. We both revolve around a familiar tune. She told me to find the balance in work and passion; some of the best advice I’ve ever heard. I can’t stop thinking about it though. Maybe I shouldn’t quit my job. Maybe I need it to provide money for those new strings for my guitar. For a new amp cord. I can’t live my dream without living a nightmare first.