the honeymoon

There's a point on the bus ride home when, standing in the aisle as the ticket checker pries past you, praying you can hold it in on either end just a few more minutes, sinuses mauling your temples, knotted gut knifing itself, sweating as profusely as always, that you think: "well, the honeymoon is over".

And you dream of places perhaps equally muggy but far less offensive to your immune system and with far more accessible friends and where you have your own kitchen and unlimited internet and a refridgerator.

~~~~~~~~~~~

But a few nights later, sitting in the relative cool of your rooftop, digestive systems no longer on red alert, the nightly call to prayer of the mosque across the street echoing through the slow german electronica of your headphones, simple sentences echoing through your head from your impromptu hindi lesson earlier that afternoon, you figure you can probably handle another bus ride.