“I keep picking up bad habits like they’re clothes on sale in trendy shops I could care less for.”

I flicked the cigarette out from underneath the bus shelter where we were standing and watched with vacant eyes and a vapid smile as it rolled along the asphalt and spluttered out in the rain. A downpour in September that could have had so much more meaning if only I had paid attention.

“I keep throwing out bad habits like they’re cheap pornos.” You grinned and I laughed.

It was stoic, hollow.

“The weather’s horrible and I have train tracks on my face.”

I frowned at my reflection in the plastic of the shelter and grimaced at the mascara running down my cheeks. You were taller than me by about a foot. I moved away as you tried to wrap your arms around my waist.

“Excuse me,” You shrugged off my evasive action and turned to another rain-soaked traveller. “How far away is the next bus?”.

The worn old businessman looked at you like you were crazy and shook his head. He moved away as you turned back to me. I saw your face appear over my shoulder.

“I’m a mess…” I whispered and you looked slightly puzzled but knew better than to try and argue with me.

Unspoken words and age-old silent battles raged in the air between us. We both looked tired. So tired and I saw a stranger in your eyes.

The businessman got tired of waiting, braved the rain and ran to the curb (stamping on my cigarette from earlier) and hailed a cab. The silence after his departure was unnerving. I grabbed your hand. You counted to ten in your head before you used your phone as an excuse to let go. My hand fell limply at my side as you let go and retrieved it from your pocket.

“Weird, I thought I had a message.” You frowned at the screen and I shivered along with the cool autumn breeze that curled around my legs six times before finally giving up and disappearing like your late night exhales and my inability to think when you directed a smile or a touch in my direction.

You sighed loudly and walked towards the edge of the shelter, eyes scanning the road outside for any sign of an approaching bus. I counted your footsteps as you returned.

One.
Two.
Three.
Four...

Five memories and significant times played themselves out behind my eyes and the train tracks on my cheeks were made more prominent. The bus pulled up about three minutes after you returned.

“I keep picking up bad habits…” I sighed again, already fishing in my bag for another cigarette.

You looked at me then, no smile. Your face was worn:

“Well that’s what you get for going through my trash”.