Devising this fervid affair worthy of a scene in a John Irving book, we’ve pretended all the while we could not stop this: the finality of this rocking Greyhound bus, each mile lumbering nearer to our impending fate as adulterers. Though we both know, (married 6 plus years): We simply bore of monogamy’s monotony. I climb the textured stairs locating a window seat where I can lean my pillow against the moist draft, my cash and weed tucked securely in the pillowcase. It started so innocently, you getting my email address from the alumni office, us talking about schools, jobs, partners, children. Dawdling passengers at the station delay the bus while I shake my left leg of impatience checking my watch as the bus groans tardily from the lot. Eventually, our subjects changed, we shared mutual complaints about partners who don’t “give it up” enough. Finally, we are gliding over the interstate, the glow of streetlights far behind, the occasional trucker coasting by this public sleeping place. The conversation reminded us of the joy of our past casual sex, our deviant positions. I check my legs to see that they still are smooth from my careful job of shaving, lotioning, my clean thong and bra wait in my carry-on bag until the moment of arrival when I will endure the stench of blue chemical flushing agent in the midget-sized, wobbling restroom. This “love”, so inconvenient, two poor people living on opposite oceans, yet now we’ve constructed the chance of a year, a 14 hour layover en route to your solo work conference. We stop, and stop, and stop again at Greyhound terminals in every nook of New England. I stay on board, glowering at sleepy passengers who get out to buy mushy vending machine pastries and coffee that reeks of being on the burner too long. The bus was the best price, ninety dollars, round trip, from the Sagadahoc to the Hudson, I’d have to cover my heightsick eyes over each river in between. Then we are halfway there. Connecticut’s arrival is announced by arduous potholes which jolt the bus, arousing sleepers’ startle reflexes. Once we gave up pretending to be reluctant (faithful) we resolutely selected the date of a conference for you around my period, for maximum oral possibilities. Then there is a faint smell of smoke, a feeling that the we’ve ceased to accelerate, I look up from my Kama Sutra book expecting yet another stop but see only the blackness of highway, feeling the bus pulling onto the uneven shoulder. The bus driver turns on the inside lights, and makes his regretful announcement, not seeming nearly surprised enough. Fellow passengers squint and groan, pulling out cell phones irritably, I stare, mournfully, past my reflection through the tinted windowpane as southbound cars’ taillights disappear down I-95.