WE’RE WAITING AT THE BUS STOP FOR THE 22 when you lean in to grab my hand. To the left, the street builds to a hill and disappears into the sky. Everyone around us is ready for something, work or life or sleep, pressing play on another city day. I sense that there is something different about my day than theirs, that I am going to continue smiling long after I step off the 22 or even the 41 at Stockton and Columbus. The bus drops you at Market. Now people swirl around and alone, I put my hands in my pockets and nervously fiddle with the transfer slip that brought me to the present moment. I smile anyway, and look forward. Washington Square is full of Chinese men and women doing their dance, dogs and owners, lovers and lovers. To everyone, something. Me? I have you. No more waiting.