As I sit comfortably, there are at least 17 open bus seats.
The blonde in the black yoga pants is choosing to sit next to me.

Why would she? No one does that. It's purposeful, has to be.
She could have had her own seat. She's way out of my league.
Everyone is out of my league.

She has the same aroma as the popular girls from those high school days
who were forced to sit in the front, by me, when they'd get in trouble.
The gentle mix of a vanilla based perfume with too much hairspray,
self confidence, some daddy issues, and a touch of compensation
for some perceived imperfection – and if one were to remove the infatuation
with the zit or the extra 10 pounds, the self confidence may be too much to handle.
Relaxing in comfortable isolation, but now Ms. Yoga Pants invades my inner narration.
Oh, the torture of inner dialogue, heart pulsation. Shouldn't I be starting a damn conversation?

Oh good, she's opening a book – Power in Pain, no worries about talking.
The very tip of her knee is touching the outside of my leg.
I pull back my leg as an automated motion, now wish I hadn't.
I'm now slowly trying to move it back, inch by inch, I crave
human contact. Interoception: I still feel vibrations running up my neck
from our moment of touch – shit, listen to me, I'm a wreck.
You idiot, just ask her about her book.

She's met me halfway, she leaned in, now we're touching again.
There's no way this could be an accident. Synergy, transfer of energy,
leg to knee, invigorating me. Am I really this lonely?

I really shouldn't be so creepily attentive to her every move, but she's moving.
She's maneuvered her body in such a way to entice my eyes to every soft curve.
Bus route's as bumpy as her curves brushing me, she's not pulling away, proving
that she's okay, at least subconsciously, with some small connectedness, perhaps unobserved.
Her hand that's not holding the pain book, for a brief moment touched mine,
for just that brief millisecond of time, our pinkies were intertwined.
But as you can likely tell, based on my switching to past tense,
I did not hold that hand, pulling away once again.

Regret immense.

Tonight I'll recall how she looked, how she smelled,
and imagine the possibility of her sharing her book of pain
and I'll try to convince myself that if I had talked, hand-held,
perhaps she would want to touch me again.