He always sat in the third seat back.
The outside seat.
His posture let everyone know that he would not be moving. He
always got on at Fourth street, always read the New York Times,
and always got off ten stops later.
How did she know? She was always at the Fourth street stop
first, waiting for the same bus, where she would see him buy his
New York Times out of the news vending machine.
His age was indiscernible. He could have been a weary 35, or he
could have been a well-preserved 55. But that wasn’t what caught
her interest.
It was his eyes.
There was a blankness there, a certain anger at the world that
she wanted to heal. But there were slight wrinkles at the
corners of his eyes that showed he had once at least, known how
to smile. Sure, she had attempted to make polite conversation,
even flirt…and once when she got the guts up, she asked him out
for a drink on the way home.
A very curt, “No I don’t think so,” and a look that would melt
the polar ice caps stopped her from asking again.
So she sat beside him across the aisle every morning, and if
she was lucky enough to get a seat, every evening.
Nothing seemed to change. He was a creature of habit- that
much was for certain. And she guessed, so was she.
It was months, and the rainiest part of the spring when she had
gotten a sudden brainwave. In one moment, she had caught him
staring at her chest. Well, it was raining, and it was chilly,
and the shirt was white…so she guessed any normal red-blooded
male WOULD stare. But it was the first time she had seen him
look beyond himself. And it gave her an idea.
When she got home, she pulled out her digital camera. A few
clicks and a printer pass later, and she had a snapshot of her
naked breasts. No head shot, not enough for anyone to know it
was her…but enough, hopefully to tease her distant bus partner.
In careful discreet writing, she placed the words, “from your
not so secret admirer” on the back. She tucked the picture into
her purse to have with her the next morning, already knowing how
she would deliver it.
She got to the bus stop early. She looked around and
surreptitiously put her coins into the newspaper vending
machine. Instead of taking out the paper, she slid the
photograph in the front of the Metro section, knowing he always
read that first. Then quickly, she took her seat as usual on
the bench, pulling her own book out.
A few minutes later, he showed up, bought his newspaper and
took his place standing stiffly next to her, the paper under his
arm. He never started to read it until he was on the bus. He
gave a curt nod of acknowledgement to her presence before
staring idly into the space before him.
The bus came a few moments later, and she tried desperately to
hide her nervousness. They both took their seats as the bus
began moving again. Her head was buried in her book, but she
didn’t focus on the words; she was focused on him.
He shook the paper open, and the picture fluttered down into
his lap. He picked it up and turned it. A stark sort of twitch
at his lips and a sudden relaxation of his shoulders made her
aware of his appreciation. That and the fact that he stared at
it, rather than reading the Metro section until the next bus
stop where he quickly placed the picture in his breast pocket.
The slight unbending in his character was practically her
undoing. She had no idea what had made him so distant, but she
was determined to bring him back. And the longer she was aware
of it, the more she realized that something in him called to her.
And so, every day, she took a new picture, writing the same
words on the back. The pictures were not always naughty bits,
sometimes a shot of the curve of her shoulder, her bare midriff,
and once with very careful framing, her back using the large
mirror in her bathroom.
Each day she watched his reaction. Soon, he was rushing to the
bus stop, and not waiting to open the paper. A true smile would
pass over his face, just for a moment, before hiding it away
again.
Only once she commented on it. “You have a lovely smile, it’s a
shame you don’t use it more often.”
His astonished look, and reddened face belied his curt retort.
It wasn’t until late summer that she caught him staring at her.
Well, everyone. He was looking around at the various women on
the bus. A few weeks, and a desolate air seemed to surround him
again, and she realized that he was no longer content with the
pictures, even the one of her playing with herself with a dildo,
with the legend, “I wish this was you,” on the back. She
imagined he thought it was a tease, a game.
But in the recent months, it had become her obsession as well.
It was during the late August heat wave that things changed.
She dressed skimpier, it was too hot for anything else. Fuck
the nylons, and a short filmy skirt topped with a halter top.
Not her usual clothing. She was getting on the bus on the way
home, with him following behind when he gasped.
She felt a gentle, bare whisper of a touch on the back of her
thigh.
“It was you,” he breathed hoarsely.
She put her token in and turned to him. His eyes filled
with…wonder?
She nodded silently, afraid that he would push her, push
everyone away again.
“How did you know?”
“You have a birthmark, right here,” his long fingers brushed
against her mid thigh once more.
She shivered in response. She had waited so long for him to
touch her.
He smiled down at her reaction. “Would you like to go
somewhere for dinner?” he asked, his face breaking out into a
grand smile at her silent nod.
“See, I told you that you have an amazing smile,” she murmured,
taking the window seat next to his.
A squeeze of his hand, and he joined her.
“By the way, my name is Amanda.”
He chuckled. Chuckled!
“Brian.” Ad he leaned forward and kissed her lips softly.
The whole bus cheered.