Sara did not know her hello would drain Bud's comfort like wine from a Franzia box punctured by a stiletto heel. They sat nearby for minutes for weeks now and watched the street for the bus and smiled when they converged, but he never spoke. Bud knew this moment: when the other wanted acquaintance beyond well-meaning faces. Conversation on topics endless. Words passed like vibrations through a Newton's Cradle where an end-ball bounces in pleasant surprise: "Hah, you love tiki masala too?" and then makes the other fly and it back-and-forths forever. But for Bud each time Sara or any woman set his ball abound some racket slaps it from its tether and he goes off. It's that thought of boxed wine or some dark viscous burgundy vintage trailing from the bent nose of his mother and her yells to pinch it back into place that hits like gunpowder against a dense iron ball that then shoots off at escape velocity straight to the stars. Bud pinched it into place. Sara, why do you leave him at the stop?