A torrential rainfall is coming down. I can see it falling from the metal sky, flowing in sheets and layering itself on the floor, preparing for me to step in it with my ever-too-long jeans. It falls down the window next to me in a waterfall, rather than the droplets that I can stare at for hours on end - the kind that join together when the wind snatches them up and tumble unwillingly down to the edge, gathering momentum with each refugee that they acquire, before being flung away to land on an unsuspecting leaf or car or piece of gravel. But no. Today it is waterfalls and torrents and sheets. There are no individual personalities amongst the masses. And I watch it, all safe and dry in the semi-comfort of the bus.

A song pops into my head, one that I was thinking of earlier, and I snatch up my iPod from the Bermuda Triangle that is my purple work/travel/everything bag and skim thtough the artists, albums and songs until I find the one that I'm looking for. I gingerly tuck the earphones into my waiting ears and let the music wash over me. I close my eyes as his voice fills my mind and drift away into oblivion. For a moment, I forget that I am the only waygook on the bus. I forget that I am on the bus at all. I forget about Korea, about teaching, about the last five months.

I am back home. Not my parents' house or the Grahamstown room that I rented for two years. Home. With him. I am lying on his bed, under the blue, patterned duvet, and his music is filling the room. He is playing some silly computer game and I am pretending to read, but my eyes keep darting towards him. He is too engrossed in his game to notice.
"Do you have any Switchfoot, baby?"
The thought comes out of nowhere. The voice just popped into my head, and it is reverberating there now. I won't be satisfied until I hear it. Maybe not even then - this might be one of those moments where I need to belt it out to be completely at peace.
He looks at me as though I'm nuts. "Any what?"
"Switchfoot."
He changes changes the screen over to his music player and starts the search. I know it's there. I remember making him download it at some point. Or possibly downloading it for him.
"Which one?" He asks the question reluctantly, bracing himself. He never trusts my musical stylings.
"Twenty-four."
He double clicks it and the voice rings out over the speakers - a clear voice, but with a hint of roughness behind it that makes me think that it doesn't come naturally - it has been polished to perfection after years of practice. He listens for a few seconds before announcing his disapproval.
"Yeuch."
I smile at him, but he has returned to playing his game, leaving me to enjoy the rest of the song without too many distractions. With each resounding word, I sing along silently in my mind and the nagging lyrics are erased from my persisting consciousness. My craving has been satisfied. I return to my book, but occasionally I look up and smile at him. He doesn't see it.