That Stranger

All it takes is one glance. He catches you by surprise. You’re not expecting to see someone like him on the bus. He’s practically sniffing his book. You have to smile.

He doesn’t look up and see you, of course, but that’s almost better, for it allows you your freedom to observe him.

The cheekbones and arched brows are there to support the focused eyes. Styled hair whispers into his ears, and he flicks a few mischievous strands from his eyes.

His lips tighten momentarily as he follows the length of a particularly challenging sentence. Then they quirk upwards, and the beginnings of crow’s feet greet you from the corners of his eyes.

You glance away, in case anyone has seen you staring. Your heart flutters its protest, for it knows that you wish nothing more than to go sit next to him and ask his name. Your brain hushes it quickly. He probably already has a significant other anyway. Better to avoid crushing disappointment.

You lack maturity, the brain chides.

And you lack courage, the heart replies.

You agree with both, but then it’s too late, for you are stepping off the bus. He is carried away, ignorant of your very existence.

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