[ WP ] A man finds a diary on a bus . He reads it , and after a few hours , the bus arrives at the address listed in the diary .

George had a set list of criteria for selecting a seat on an empty bus. The prime seat could not be in the first five rows -too tempting for the lonely driver to talk to him. It could not be dirty, even if it was stained long ago, and in no way discolored as this could perhaps indicate some unhealthful condition was present like mildew. It could n't be lumpy, off center, or rumpled and any slashes, even those repaired with a patch or duct tape, were strictly forbidden. 
 
 A seat that still retained someone's forgotten property, however, was open for internal debate. 
 
 Backpacks were definitely off-limits, as those could contain contraband or dangerous materials he would n't want to be caught with. Purses and wallets, of course, were fair game. This time, however, as he chose the second seat on the right in the 8th row, he found a simple, brown, leather-bound book with a small metal clasp and lock. Jackpot. 
 
 George surreptitiously lifted the book as he sat down, careful not to raise it above the seat back lest the driver notice the book was already there and attempt to claim it. He set his grocery bags down in the seat beside him and cast a furtive glance up at the rear-view mirror. The driver was not watching. 
 
 Slipping his keys out of his pocket, he jammed one key beneath the lock and levered it apart with a slight snap. His expectations were met; it was a diary. 
 
 *November 13, 2014 -Dear diary, * 
 
 *Another day, another disappointment. Got stood up tonight. I hate it when women do that. * 
 
 George snorted contemptuously. He'd been stood up last week as well -and several weeks before that too. No one could have known how it feels more than he could. By his estimation, he had far more experience in disappointment than the author of this journal and decided he might jot down his own, superior experience in response after he was done consuming the private scribblings. 
 
 *November 15, 2014 -Dear Diary, * 
 
 *I am so alone. I want to die. I ca n't figure out how to act, how to look or what to do to make women like me. I try and try and they either ignore me or act like they're better than me. I hate it. * 
 
 George nodded, this time in approval. He was identifying with the writer now albeit he still considered his own lonely existence to be sadder and more profoundly empty than this fellow's. He noted tear stains on the page. Despite the fact that he too had cried many a night alone in his cluttered apartment, he somehow felt disdain for the author's tears, murmuring something about being a pansy. 
 
 *November 18th, 2014 -Dear Diary* 
 
 *Finally, she replied. I know this date will be perfect. She is so beautiful. I bet she'll be better than any of those bitches who turned me down recently. Ones like this one do n't come along too often. I'm going to have the time of my life. * 
 
 George's brow furrowed as he re-read the entry. The bus' brakes squealed loudly and George looked up t see the driver's eyes meet his in the mirror. 
 
 `` End of the line,'' the bus driver stated flatly. 
 
 George got up, gathering his bags and holding the diary still, forgetting to tuck it away in case the driver recognized it. Instead, he walked slowly forward, staring out the huge forward window of the bus. 
 
 `` What? Are n't we going to East 53rd?'' George asked numbly. 
 
 `` End of the line. Please exit the bus.'' The driver opened the door. George just stood there a long moment, his eyes still fixed on the scene before him. He numbly walked down the steps and got off the bus. 
 
 A thick cloud of black exhaust belched out of the tailpipe as the bus pulled away from the crowded cemetery. 
 
 *November 19th, 2014 -Dear Diary, * 
 
 *She was more beautiful than any woman I have ever dated before. Her tears were so exquisite, they rolled down her cheeks like diamonds and I chose not to lap them up dog-like as I had so many times before her but instead chose to savor them, teasing them from her face with the tip of my tongue. I made her cry for a long, long time before I killed her. I think she learned the best lesson I have ever taught before. I wo n't fail now. I shall take more and more of them from this Earth so they can never hurt me again and the whole world will cry diamonds until they learn the price of rejection. * 
 
 The pages of the diary flipped in the stark and wintery wind that howled through the cemetery. The inside back cover read simply `` George R. Cass -Cypress Hills Cemetery.'' The bags of groceries lay untouched beside the simple grave stone. *Here lies George Rudolph Cass. May he rot in Hell. *
