How late...

How late...

How late is it before I confess?

I see you each day. Well, almost each day. Some days, we don't run into each other. The days when we miss each other, I wonder if you miss me. No, to be honest, I don't. That is, I don't wonder. Nor do I miss you. Still, on days like these, my mind wanders.

How late is it before I can never confess?

We smile at each other as we await the bus. "How's work?", you ask. I mutter sweet somethings in return. What's the point of telling you? You'd never understand. We don't really know each other that well, do we? [Work's great, by the way.]

It's getting late. I can never confess now, can I?

It's easier on the way back. I can hide in the twilight shade, bury my eyes in a magazine, plug my ears with my music, protect my nose from the commuting dust with a handkerchief. I can pray that you don't sit near me. I'm too afraid I'll have to confess.

Shite, it's over. The last window of opportunity just closed shop and bolted.

May we always meet each other in isolation. When no one else of our mutual acquaintance is near us. My worst nightmare: I meet you when I'm with someone I know but you don't. I can't bear to be embarassed.

You see? Ok. Here goes. I don't know about you, but I certainly don't remember your name. Now, it's too late to ask. How late is it before I can no longer ruefully inform a very casual acquaintance that despite them telling me clearly, I don't really remember their name?