At night, it's sometimes a bit frightening when someone pulls the cord to request a stop, the bus stops on some dark, featureless corner, and the passenger steps off the bus and into the void.
A couple in front of me is having a sad gropey party of their own on the bus. They spilled some of their drink from their plastic cup and now the bus smells like the ninth inning in the upper deck at Shea Stadium.
I'm always somewhat sad when my bus ride comes to an end. It means that I am responsible for things again. Maybe there's a bus out there that never stops.
The woman in the partying couple (the tattoo on the back of her neck reads "Jackie" in blue-black script) is now kissing the ample neck of her beloved, and crying.