Bus wife

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Free-roaming and freakydelicious. Part of a balanced morning diet.

The First Encounter[edit]

I'm sitting alone, staring absentmindedly out the window while feigning a look of absolute fascination with the passing trees and telephone poles, when she approaches. I pretend not to notice.

She's early 30s. Dressed in an attractive, if modest, deep black dress skirt and a white cotton blouse with sleeves that are too short to hide the flaming skull tattoo on her upper arm. Not exactly a soccer mom. Is she a mom?

She has a sultry, stylish cut just long enough to obscure the dozen-odd holes in each earlobe. No sign of a pierced nose or eyebrow. The other regions are for my own imagination, not that I'm thinking about it. Because I'm not. Absolutely not.

She gets off about 15 minutes later. My mind wrestles with the possibilities, then rests awhile, feeling unsatisfied and yearning for a cigarette.

Odd. I don't smoke.

The Second Encounter[edit]

Our eyes meet, if only for a second. Not long enough to communicate my interest, but fortunately also not long enough to accidentally communicate "obsessive stalking psycho killer watching", either. Fortunate, that.

Another white cotton blouse with short sleeves, and another chance to see her from a different angle. A Medusa head on that arm. Interesting. A mythology buff? Metal fan? Aging goth? It matters not. Come to me... sit awhile.

Our arms touch. I've rolled up the sleeves of my blue and white pinstriped Hilfiger dress shirt for just this purpose. I lean forward to retie one of my shoes, meanwhile stealing a sideways glance at her ankle—adorned with a bleeding heart pierced by a dagger. Classy.

We sit in silence, a scant bit of flesh touching, but otherwise constrained by business attire, maturity, and public decency laws.

Middle-aged rage against the machine.

The Final Encounter[edit]

We're nearly at her pickup stop. I've saved her seat by giving vaguely mentally imbalanced looks to the passers by. I'm good at those; I've been practicing them in the mirror.

I wait.

The door opens, and she steps in. Ivory dress. Sleeveless. Bravely and shamelessly the bland fabric of the dress argues with the loud, chaotic designs of her skin.

I see her, and she me. Our eyes connect.

I wait; she approaches. I'm captivated and gaze too long.

She stops short. She looks away, then sits with someone else.

I pretend that my heart isn't breaking...

...for a few minutes, anyway.

NEXT!