“Have you ever been in love,” she asked.
“Yes. Twice,” he replied.
“Only twice,” she asked.
“Well, twice and then a million times
every day,” he replied.
“How’s that work,” she asked.
“Well, I was really in love
twice. With the most
wonderful of women.
And I also fall in love with every
lovely woman I see on the train,
or the bus,
or at a stop light,
or tending bar,” he replied.
“Doesn’t that cheapen your love,” she asked.
“No. Not at all. I think it only
makes it stronger and more
available when needed. I know I’m
capable of love and being loved,” he replied.
“What do you do about all your
loves,” she asked.
“Well, two got away and I’ll always
miss them. I know I’ll never have
that sort of love again and it’s tough
and it hurts. But it’ll eventually hurt
less over time and I’ll be okay. But
the others, the train riders and bus
passengers and bar maids, the stop light love
affairs, the constant falling in love,
I do next to nothing about,” he replied.
“Why don’t you do anything about them,” she asked.
“Because I know it’s just a fleeting, passing fancy. I know it
isn’t real love. It’s probably just desire that I slap a
fancier label on to make myself feel better,” he replied.
“I don’t think I’ve ever really been in love,” she said.
“That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard,” he said.
“Do you love me,” she asked.
“Of course I do,” he said.
“Thanks,” she said.
She rose from her bus seat and moved
to the door. The bus stopped and she
exited to the street.