I am packed into the back corner of a bus, riding home. It is crowded full of people, but none of them notice me sitting by the window with longing eyes. Some have an emptiness on their faces that says they have given up long ago. Now they just go through the motions to make it look as if they are living.

I look out the window. It is not even five o’clock and already dark. Here and there a lamp or a neon sign are an island of brightness against the black as we pass. My stop is near. I reach out and pull on the worn yellow cord that runs along the side of the bus just above the windows. The bus driver stops the bus to let me off and then continues on down the road.

I hurry across the cold, dark winter street to the lit doorway at the front of my building. My numb hands search my coat pockets for the key. The metal is even colder than my hands. I use it to open the door and go in. I walk past the many plain doors in the hall to my apartment. Inside, I turn on a light, but it does not dispel the loneliness.