Thursday, January 28, 2010
Honey, put the kettle on.
I had to wait forever, or so it felt, for the bus to come and take me home tonight. It's so strange, how waiting by yourself can seem like hours have passed, but when you are with someone it couldn't be long enough, is never long enough for you to finish the conversation you were having.
So, the wait was lonely.
And when the bus finally came, I did as I normally do - step on, show my bus pass, and proceed to look for an empty seat, preferably by the window so I can just space out and watch the street lights go by. I found my seat, and it was crowded, and a man of about 35 sat beside me.
Of course, like so many young people today, I was completely tuned out with my iPod, music playing in my head. And, of course, in my lonely state, I was listening to the type of music that really does one no good at all - music that makes you only feel more lonely, or more sad, or more angry, than that certain mood you are already in. Why do we do that to ourselves? I don't really know. But it seems like it's a reoccuring ritual with me.
I'm digressing. Anyways, the song I was listening to - A John Mayer classic, nonetheless - was at a quiet moment, and I overheard the man beside me on the telephone. He said, "Hey hon, I'm almost home. Put the kettle on?" in a sweet, gentle tone that only meant one thing: he was talking with his wife who was waiting for him to arrive home from work.
I just thought it was the most consoling thing to hear at that moment. Because it led me to think how lucky someone is to have someone else to go home to. I think it could make the world of a difference in someone's day - like mine, for instance. Or for anyone who just needs a cup of warm tea to come home to.
Oh how I hope to call 'someone' from a bus ride home and say "put the kettle on" one day.