cautionary tale

They rode the same bus occaisionally. Often enough so that when they met at a party they pointed and their words tumbled awkwardly over each other: You're the one from the bus. He told her he was pleased to know that those head phones weren't permanent appendages, that he had always imagined her listening to Rachmaninov...or maybe Joni Mitchell. He was never quite sure. Can you ever really be sure of anything? She felt slightly glib, striking this coy little pose of a cool philosopher, even as the words left her mouth. But the windows of the room were steaming over and she felt lucid and clever with her glass of white wine. She didn't tell him that she was teaching herself Italian in Ten Minutes a Day.