Tom, tired of waiting had gone across the street. At the counter now under the too-bright lights he endured the ghastly smile of the guy behind the counter. He dropped his drinks, chips, cookies, gum, energy pills, eggs (on a regretful whim), brake fluid, shriveled hot dogs, newspapers, magazines and Spanish-language CD.

The Sobe bottle clunked, which roused him out of his reverie. Self-reflective to a fault he knew he’d dropped it all absent-mindedly still thinking about the man and the woman in the cooler door corner. “I recognize him,” Tom thought. “It’s gonna bug the fuck out of me now.”

But sure as shit he wasn’t going to go over and ask him, how.

Tom turned as he fished for his wallet and the two were gone. He struggled with whether to tell the cashier but the guy gave off such an air of not giving a flying fuck, he didn’t think it would do any good. Besides, he couldn’t really afford to answer too many questions, either.

The bus stop, which had seemed the most boring place on earth to Tom’s restless mind now seemed a safe haven. He knew he had about 30 minutes. He’d blown half of that and two bags hanging from his right hand, he put his left over his belly button, his index finger stroking it though he was unaware. It was a sight spot, a way to get his bearings.

He opened his eyes deliberately wider so his eyes could adjust more quickly. He thought about the assassination plot he’d heard, and smiled. Is that the latest hot place to plan murder, because he’d never been made aware. “Assassination,” he whispered and laughed. “Who am I, Ghandi?”

Because Ghandi was killed by someone like him, a fanatic, though colder and less compassionate. “Is there someone less compassionate than me?” It was not a pointless question. Whim was not the same as whimsy and passion was not the same as compassion.”