Portland at Midnight

The night is damp and freezing. Stale raindrops drip down my shirt from the bus stop awning, and send shivers down my spine. My hair smells like cigarette smoke and a still drying spot on my jeans smells suspiciously of beer. The rain has slowed to a violent drizzle but the murky puddles have already become oceanic. My shoes are wet; my socks are soaked; my feet are frozen. My head is reeling and foggy as I lean degectedly against the cold glass of the bus stop shelter. A man sitting on a bench oggles me from beneath his Goucho Marx eyebrows. His jeans have grease stains that may very well have dripped down from his slick hair. I pray that the Number 4 comes soon and that he is going a different route. I close my eyes and fantasize a warm bed and a shower; burning water and cleansing steam.