The rain slid down in lazy streams against the black canopy of her open umbrella. She kept checking her watch, the hem of her peach skirt swishing constantly as she fidgeted in the bus stop.

"This... this is when we first... no, when we are supposed to meet," the man whispered to himself. He was certain that not even the softly falling raindrops heard him. All around, the storm's aftermath washed the suburbs in a strange light. Here it glistened on a drooping leaf, there it smudged the cracked concrete. Everywhere, the world was oblivious of his presence.

Her eyes flitted right and left, straining against the gray morning and the wind that fluttered her ribboned hair. Pretty soon, a yellow bus came into view. A ghost of a smile passed by her face, revealing for a moment a fraction of the woman he had fallen in love with. That seemed... like such a long time ago.

Soon enough, the bus parked and its doors opened. She gingerly stepped on, avoiding the puddles. He, too, stepped forward and made to cross the street.

"You know you can't. And you know you shouldn't."

An old lady chimed in his thoughts, standing back a few meters and smiling at him gently. Then, she gestured to the curb. He followed with downcast eyes. How strange that something so cruel should take such a frail form!

The bus slowly drove away, trailing puffs of white smoke. He tried to recall how she looked today -- white top, peach skirt, red coat, brown bag... silken skin and ebony locks, eyes that would melt the heavens, a form that Venus would envy -- and tried hard to burn her image into his memory.

He tried to cherish every bit of this...

Because soon he will forget.

He must forget.