T minus 23 and counting

Fred sat back and watched as the light outside the bus darkened, contrasting with the television-screen reflections of himself and his fellow passengers on the inside. Outside flashes of neon, selling deep-fried chicken dinners, cheap children's toys and price-slashed discount furniture sailed past him.

A south american family swung themselves into the seat infront of him, obscuring his view of the road ahead, cramming themselves (a mother and two little children) into the two-seater.
He watched the two kids wrestling each other for room, grubby hands on the greasy window.
The children seemed to be engaged in some sort of game, where each took it in turn to be the 'newsreader'. The elder, a boy with thick dark hair, would elbow the slighter of the two, out of the way and hold up an imaginary microphone, reporting on the weather, the latest hot news in the press, occasionally what his mother was doing. Chuckling, the smaller of the two would then pitch in, pushing the first out of the way to dominate the screen.
Fred smiled and shook his head, releasing a goofy 'heep heep heep' from his heavy frame.

His mind wondered to the last time he'd had an evening out - 'that had gone better by far', he thought.
In a favourite restaurant of a friend's, he'd met Emilie. Located in a less than appealing part of the city, where half the streetlights hummed greenish, and walking between them felt tight-rope. The place was tucked away in an industrial back-passage far from any sign of human activity. They sat down together, she wore a flouncy folky number, with cowboy boots, standard fare for girls from her neighbourhood.
The main event for the evening commenced.
Half a dozen waitresses, previously stood quite quietly by their candle-lit tables and second-hand flea-market chairs, swayed slowly, side to side and the waitress nearest them let out a high-pitched hum, joined by the others, one by one, until the wine glasses were resonating to the sound, now almost too loud to bear.
Then they stopped.
One then began, in a whisper, to describe the meal she'd had, her mother gave her the recipe. Another joined in from across the room, overlaying her voice, and her story, upon the former.
Soon the room was filled with delicious descriptions of food. Wine had been poured, without his noticing. Just how he liked it. Sweet, and sumptuous.

An evening nobody and nothing had quite yet matched.