It wasn't until a few weeks after I first caught that bus that you noticed me. We'd been sharing seven stops, and I was content, requiring no contact. I was afraid to break the spell. You were an illusion, pleasant and appealing, like peonies after the rain. The scent of faint vanilla trailed behind you as I watched your bright blue rain boots walk down the aisle. In a moment you had passed me, not once glancing from your paper world. You were so elegant then, thanking the driver and stepping onto the pavement, opening your clear umbrella and finding your page marker. I have never wanted so badly to be the printed word.
By now I'd memorized your stop and began praying for traffic, for more time to watch you from the corner of my eye. The way strands of your hair would fall from your ponytail as you read, but you scarcely seemed to notice. Your fingers dipping along the spine of your book, caressing it reverently. I gave myself chills, imagined traces of your touch along my arms.
I wish I could have seen my own face when you placed your hand on the back of my chair, asking 'Is this seat taken?' in the voice of Adonis. Maybe it was the sun streaming through the windows behind you, but the effect had me stuttering like a madman. Your slight smile, the subtle tilt of your chin, and I remembered to make room for you beside me.
We didn't speak the first time, but instead of reading you turned and watched the road fall away behind us. I couldn't seem to find my voice, or bring myself to look away. I'm sure you knew, you had to, yet your presence was so peaceful. Three stops before mine, at the usual time you stood to leave, flashing a radiant smile towards me. I almost missed my own, watching your afterimage hover behind my eyelids.
Soon we would exchange words, my awkward syllables meeting your lilting ones in syncopation. Your warmth had me growing bolder, and I placed my hand on yours. I waited for you to pull away, but you squeezed my fingers between yours and I could feel the cool leather beneath our palms. When I finally looked up, I saw meadows drifting past the windows. I thought of you, and picnics, red plaid green grass and the dappled sunlight falling on us from an oak tree as tall as the sky. I thought of your hand on mine against the backdrops of the world. We'd missed our stops, but you didn't seem to mind. I could think of nothing but your brilliant skin beneath my fingertips, and the way your eyes fluttered closed when I brought my lips to yours. Your light filled the tumbling space around us, and I realized I didn't care where we were going.
Tomorrow is the day I get off three stops early.