In the year 1987, the bus ride was a theater of human emotions, a stage where the mundane met the profound. He, with his honey-rum voice, quoted Bukowski to a blonde girl who mistook his words for the lyrics of a love song. It irked me, perhaps even pissed me off, to witness his earnest recitation met with her vacant stare and hollow laughter. From my seat, two rows behind, I observed them. He pinched her nose playfully, his voice weaving love spells from the great literary minds, while she remained oblivious to the depth of his words.

There was no pretentiousness in his speech, no arrogance. He was a literary wanderer, a soul who believed in the power of words, seeking to share the wisdom of those who had unraveled the mysteries of love and life. His quotes were like vibrant threads in an intricate Persian rug, each word adding color and texture to the tapestry of his expression.

I wondered if nights spent with him, debating the sublime nature of words and the essence of life, would be more fulfilling than the mere collision of bodies. His passion for literature was palpable, a beacon of sincerity in a world often devoid of it.

A week later, a different man sat beside the blonde woman. The honey-rum voice was gone, leaving only the memory of his literary fervor. Yet, every time I read Bukowski, I am transported back to that bus ride, to the sound of his husky, warm voice, and the fleeting glimpse of a soul who truly understood the majesty of words. ❤️

©️ Beatriz Esmer