Two Old Winos

Stop me if you’ve heard this one before. Two old winos sit in a bus stop. They’re immortal. They drink to pass the time, for time is all they have... well, time and each other. Only time does not pass - it shuffles a millimetre at a time, intently staring at our two companions and never leaving their field of view.

They sit in this bus stop and they watch the world go by at an intolerably slow rate. Sometimes they give a light to students waiting for the morning bus to university. Sometimes they strike up conversation with complete strangers, as only old people and wino’s can, in hopes of an interesting story to liven their day. But mostly they keep themselves to themselves, always sat in the bus stop; a permanently half-drunk bottle of cheap plonk sat at their feet like a loyal pet and the butt of a cigarette held between their nicotine-stained fingers. 

They originally drank to forget but it made them remember even more. Of course they don’t remember that now. Because these days they drink to pass the time, for time is all they have... well, time and each other. Only time does not pass - it shuffles a millimetre at a time, intently staring at our two companions and never leaving their field of view. 

They sit in this bus stop and they watch the world go by at an intolerably slow rate. Sometimes they give a light to students waiting for the morning bus to university. Sometimes they strike up conversation with complete strangers, as only old people and wino’s can, in hopes of an interesting story to liven their day. But mostly they keep themselves to themselves, always sat in the bus stop; a permanently half-drunk bottle of cheap plonk sat at their feet like a loyal pet and the butt of a cigarette held between their nicotine-stained fingers. 

They originally drank to forget but it made them remember even more. Of course they don’t remember that now. Because these days they drink to pass the time, for time is all they have... well, time and each other. Only time does not pass - it shuffles a millimetre at a time, intently staring at our two companions and never leaving their field of view. 

They sit in this bus stop and they watch the world go by at an intolerably slow rate. Sometimes they give a light to students waiting for the morning bus to university. Sometimes they strike up conversation with complete strangers, as only old people and wino’s can, in hopes of an interesting story to liven their day. But mostly they keep themselves to themselves, always sat in the bus stop; a permanently half-drunk bottle of cheap plonk sat at their feet like a loyal pet and the butt of a cigarette held between their nicotine-stained fingers. 

They originally drank to forget but it made them remember even more. Of course they don’t remember that now. Because these days they drink to pass the time, for time is all they have... well, time and each other--