The lady behind me tapped me on the shoulder. “I think he has a crush on you.”

I side-eyed the three of them. “Is this The Truman Show? Am I on television right now? Because what even is my life?”

An older man one seat back across the aisle answered. “I heard your soup question, son. I think there’s a pretty good chance your life is a mess.”

And so, for the remainder of my bus ride home, random strangers on the 353 bus discussed my life, The Truman Show, and soup.

Fuck my life.

Chapter Eight

Hennessy

I read our text exchange for what must have been the tenth time.

Just so you know, we may need to find a new bus to catch. People on this one are discussing our questions, gazpacho (which one lady keeps calling gestapo), and Nepal. They’ve heard our questions every day, and I think they’re more invested in us than Merry and Angus. Which is a lot.

That’s a shame. I like that bus. There’s a cute guy that gets on at the library.

Tell me about it. There’s a total hottie that gets off on Cleveland. He wears headphones and I like to think he listens to audiobooks and not music.

That reminds me. I need a new audiobook recommendation. Know anyone at the local library who can give me suggestions?

Maybe… There might be a guy.

Is he cute?

Kinda. A bit awkward tho. Says motherfucker a lot.

LOL I have a joke. Wanna hear it?

Sure!

What do Oedipus and Hamlet have in common?

IDK. What?

They’re both motherfuckers.

HAHAHA best joke ever! I’m cry-laughing. Actual, physical tears. People on the bus have stopped talking about soup and are now staring at me.

You’re welcome.

I’m going to have that printed on a shirt. And a literary joke? You win all the points.

Glad you liked it.

I’ll have the best question ready for you tomorrow, so be prepared.

Can’t wait

I slid my phone onto my desk and Michael caught me smiling at it.

“Is that what’s-his-name? Jordan?” He fluttered his eyelashes.

“Shut up.”

“So that’s a yes. I think I might need to meet this guy.”

“What? I’ve been out with him once.”

“And you talk on the bus every day, and you get hearts in your eyes every time you think of him, you have conversations via text, and you never smiled at your phone like that with Rob.”

I wanted to roll my eyes but refused to give him the satisfaction. “Can I ask you a serious question?”

His smile faded. “Yeah, of course.”

“Why isn’t cereal considered to be or called a soup?”

He stared. “Cereal?”

“Yeah, like rice bubbles or corn flakes. It’s a grain product immersed in liquid and eaten hot or cold.”

His eyes narrowed. “Are you feeling okay?”

I laughed. “I feel great.”