He takes the morning bus to the Van Ness Metro station, then gets on the train. But after the day is over, he gets off at Van Ness and walks the distance to his apartment. I wonder if he knows that transfering from a Metro train to a bus is cheaper than a bus to a train — much cheaper! He probably doesn't even notice the charges to his Metro card. He's the kind of guy who'd close his eyes while getting raped. He just doesn't want to know. Hell, I'd keep my eyes wide open. I want to own the injustice. It's why I monitor my Metro spending so carefully.

But, yeah. I see him every morning on my bus. For about two minutes. Our brief love affair begins and ends with the brief glance we exchange as he boards. Who even knows if he's looking at me — he's wearing some faggoty pair of sunglasses. Yes, wearing sunglasses on public transportation is pretty damn gay, but it doesn't necessarily mean that you're checking me out. But, let's be honest, who wouldn't check me out. The pickings on Metrobus are slim, so I have at least that going for me.

The payoff comes at the end of the day, when the odds of spotting my Metro boyfriend are in my favor. We must leave our respective offices at the same time, because we're often on the same train home. We get off at the same stop, and yet, as I transfer to the bus, he walks. I want to scream, "Take the bus, Forrest! Take the bus!" But instead, he walks.

Behind your gay sunglasses are what I imagine to be green eyes. I like your expensive haircut. I like the way your ass fills your black pants. I like the way you run across Connecticut Avenue to catch the morning bus, as if you're casually completing the Tour de France.

Sit next to me tomorrow.

Of course, if we actually spoke, the relationship would stumble along for three months and then end in disaster, just like all of my other relationships. I'm not in a position to date anyone right now. But it's still nice to have a Metro boyfriend, especially one who doesn't have the misfortune of knowing that I exist.