writing about women on the bus

In a random turn of events, I just found my old livejournal (link) which tracks my life through mid-2004 and through the move back from Texas and sporadically updated for a couple of years after...

I particularly liked this entry. I know who I was writing about. She ended up becoming one of my dearest friends

Tuesday, March 28th, 2006
writing about women on the bus
She paints her face on a Friday night
In a dress that is hard to ignore
High heels and stockings
For no one but herself
And the memory of love.
Even in the bottle haze of a Friday night
Where everyone is looking for something
But they don't know what it is
She sits down at the bar
Where she will stay
Smoking cheap cigarettes out of a fancy case
And sipping whiskey like a lady
Until the room starts to spin
A sloppy drunk in high heals and smeared make up
She smiles like the keeper of a secret
To the men watching her
Caught by a song
On the juke box
Her face fades
The bar will be closing soon
A line of men form around her
Each one wants to take her home
Maybe they feel her loneliness
They want to save her from it
While saving themselves
She would rather go home alone
In the morning, she will make tea
To ease her head
And not have to make a second cup
For a stranger in her bed
She finishes her drink
Catching a piece of ice in her mouth
She looks around the room
And sees the men staring back
She considers easing her condition
But instead picks up herself
And walks home.
Every Friday night
She makes the room fall in love with her
Because there's one who doesn't anymore