An older version of me was waiting for the bus. Wearing a brown biker jacket of  gently distressed leather, she was as much over 70 as I am over 40. Neither of us look it. Madame catches my eye because I don't want to be her. I don't want to be one of those ladies who forgot to stay married, tooling around on city buses, no matter how fashionable. She's in great shape. Since I've been putting down the pounds, I'm overly plugged into body shapes and sizes. She's about a  6 in her Levi's, sporting a captain's hat and stylish  sunglasses. Oh yeah, she's me in 30 years if I don't stop this serial dating. I left my husband over 8 years ago and haven't settled on anything permanent yet. It's not for lack of trying. I have had two long-term relationships with men I shouldn't have. Perfectly good men, just not the right ones for me. Conventional, tax-paying, child support having human beings who are too tame for my creative tendencies. I like them bad boys. Not the bail you out, pick the needle out your arm type of bad boy;but a man with a little edge is my preference. He falls down the side of a mountain, makes a mix tape and writes coffeehouse poetry, I want him.

Yet, I don't. I had Tom, an aspiring filmmaker, full of angst and tales in my twenties. I've beat myself up regularly for fleeing straight to the arms of a nice stable engineer and spent the next six years plucking my eyes out from sheer and utter boredom. Saturday morning gave us time alone together. I wonder if  he sat there looking at me on our back porch the same way I looked at him, "what have I done?" We'd stand around at parties, African and American, making chit chit over small paper dishes. Smiling and not giving a fuck about what the other was saying.  Buying gifts and sending well wishing to our friends and loved ones at their milestones. I know how to smooth this hair down and wear an appropriate outfit and shut up. All this seemed like a good idea to  avoid the drama of the artist. I wanted to side-step the nights full of insomnia and crushing insecurities that cloud the time between awe-inspiring murals. Letters from debt collectors making  their colorful nests under guitar strings and photos and freaking projects. It wears thin and hard. I wanted no part of it.

Mrs. Ex jumps up spry and fit at Aldine. I want to jump off the bus, too. I need to know the details of her story. I want to shake my future out of her toney handbag, but there's a text from the new man I'm dating.

Brianna Clemons Kloutse