hurts

I exit the train and see the bus waiting there. I, along with a few others, rush to step on before it leaves the stop. The wait for the next one is almost a half hour and unreliable.

I ignore most of the passengers—it’s busier than usual—and make my way toward the back. The National blares in my ears, drowning out much of the conversation around me, but I catch bits of the conversation next to me, between the man across and the man directly to my right.

The man across, dressed in a brown button-up shirt with short sleeves and matching slacks, talks loudly about his having to ride the train and bus back to his home. His son can’t pick him up because he works tomorrow. He’s as dumbfounded at his son’s explanation as I am.

He wears a gray cap, a beret with a bill facing forward, that sits high on his head and a fake silver watch. He holds a pair of cheap sunglasses in his hand. His hair is straggly and graying, the hat turned up enough to see a receding hairline. His eyes are glossy, almost distant. He looks drunk.

The man next to me, in an a-shirt and jean shorts, laughs boisterously and responds at a similar volume. He says Brown Shirt’s son should know what’s what. He laughs that Brown Shirt is left on the bus while his wife is home and his son uses his car.

I reach down and pause my music. I see Jean Shorts is wearing white Adidas sneakers with green detail. Even without the music, leaving my headphones on, I can’t understand much of the conversation.

“... Can’t file section eight with bad credit.”
“How long’s your son been working?”
“About four years —”
“That’s your credit right there...”

“...That’s what they say though, love hurts. Right?”
“Boy, don’t they! Sure does.”

Both men laugh as the woman says something. They start talking quickly, overlapping their words so I can’t understand either. Then the woman says something about priorities.

“When your wife says ‘priorities,’ what does she mean?” Brown Shirt asks.
“Love hurts,” replies Jean Shorts.
Brown Shirt looks up, a confused look on his face. He pauses a second and then smiles broadly. “Love hurts is right. I don’t know what it means neither, but you go to your first point. Love hurts.”

I reach back and pull the cord as the bus pulls within a couple blocks. Their conversation continues with Jean Shorts repeating “love hurts” incessantly. I put my book into my backpack and discreetly resume the music.

The bus slows. I stand and step out the side doors. My mind floods. What was just going on? Neither knew definitively what priorities were or how a phrase like “get your priorities” straight should be used. They were talking over one another without understanding. They both laughed enthusiastically when they thought they should, not knowing what either was saying.