Condensation.

It goes by in a blur. Grey trains, in a grey yard, framed by the grey sky and the grey rain. The windows inside glisten with moisture. It reminds me of a cold beer left stranded on a hot summer day. Condensation. My arch enemy. These little beads of water or sweat or whatever the hell is now lining the inside of the bus, drip, drop, and roll with each lurch and acceleration. I am trapped inside three walls of glass, prespiring and twinkling with the reflection of the city lights. All the paper towels in the world couldn't dry this balmy beast.

My eyes dart from window to window. I am sitting in the direct center of the bus as far back as physically possible. My back against the only surface in the bus without a window. Surrounded. I take off my coat and use it to dry the window to my left. I slowly slide to the right and start drying the next window. As my eyes look back to my left to admire my victory, I am met with a surprise. The beads are reforming. Rapidly reassembling their army, ready to continue their downward march. A flow of fluids, falling faster and faster with each breath. It must be a cheap parlor trick, some elemental slight of hand. I scan the crowded bus. The air outside is too cold. Inside, too many mouths breathe, hot, warm air.

Something has to give. I take off my shirt and start to dry another window. The beads keep forming. They will not surrender. Neither will I. I take off my undershirt and dry another window. My damp wet clothes now line the floor of the bus. The people that sat close to me have moved. I am now alone. Outnumbered. Desperate times, call for desperate measures. If these walls of condensation keep forming and falling, the bus will flood. We will be up to our necks in it.

I stand up and calmly advise my fellow passengers of the dire situation. My words are met with looks of confusion and disgust. Not exactly the reaction I expected. I decide to ask for a favor. "If you could all limit your breathing for the next two bus stops, maybe don't breath at all, I would greatly appreciate it. The levels of condensation have reached their apex. If we all pitch in we can limit the damage. Who is with me?"

The driver slams on his brakes. I pitch forward and land on my bare stomach, sliding to the top of the stairs. I look up. The police. Finally, someone else understands, just how serious, condensation truly is.