(like I did) To a love song
I was on my way home from school, fourth or fifth grade. The bus was empty save for me and the bus driver. I sat by an open window, taking in the deep, congested Manila air and feeling it attach itself to my pores and hair. No wonder I always smelled like hot baked clay when I came home. It didn't matter if I was under shade, the heat would find me.

The driver turned up the radio when an Aerosmith song came on. I remember clasping my hands to my ears and still feeling that pinging sensation in them. All I could hear was krsshhhh, not unlike the sound you'd hear from the TV when it's on the fritz, or even bacon sizzling on an angry pan.

Then the song ended, and I tensed. Would he turn down the radio, or would the volume continue for the duration of the ride? Surely, my ears would bleed out by then, and maybe he'd notice that his lone passenger had passed out on the grimy floor.

But it didn't matter. Another song started and I lowered my hands to listen.

"Never looked so lovely as you did tonight..."

I waited for the driver to turn down the music, or change the station. But he kept it on. He had long greasy hair that probably festered like pus, boiling under his hat. Or did he have short hair with a dry scalp? It didn't matter. He didn't seem like the type to sway (like I did) to a love song. But he sang along, and instead of becoming annoyed at his flat tenor that followed the words two seconds too late, I smiled to myself.

"There's nobody here," the driver sang, "just you and me."

I felt a yearning, for what, I did not know. Maybe I wanted to dance "cheek to cheek" with someone. Maybe I wanted someone to think I looked so spectacular in a red dress that he'd sing a song for me. Maybe I wanted to know why everyone made such a big deal out of dancing in the first place. Wasn't it just knowing how to properly execute the Roger Rabbit?

Where were you when you first heard Chris DeBurgh's "Lady in Red"?