On the bus. He could feel every contour of his face, every edge and protrusion. The skin was pulled more tightly over the bone and cartilage than usual. It often did that just after he had showered. The skin probably dried up somewhat. But who had time for lotions and ointments, really? It was more than enough work to brush each day. Flossing only occurred sporadically. When he remembered to remember. Not often enough according to his dentist. Screw that guy though, he had arm-hair covering his wrist watch. He may know about dental hygiene but who takes advice from a guy like that? And those kids in the framed pictures, let's just hope they're talented or something. He had gotten off the bus now, waiting for the next one. In that little glassy hut-like structure they call a bus stop. Smoking the first cigarette of the day as he stood there. Mulling over what he had heard about the nicotine in the cigarettes turning your fingers yellow he concluded;

"This is what yellow tastes like."

Do colours have tastes? If they did, yellow would no doubt taste like a morning cigarette in the rain. Did the cigarettes actually taste different while smoked on an early, rainy day? Or was it all in his head? In either case it was all real to him. That's what mattered, right now. Until he got to see her again. Finallly.

Yoghurtspasm