Bus

A smile.

An ever-so-slight twitch of the lips,
one movement he cannot help but notice.
But her eyes - 
they dart away as quickly as a fish in troubled waters.

He slouches, disappointed
lifts his hand, aware of quietly observing eyes
and a half-bowed head pretending not to notice
As he musses his hair with calculated casualness.

She bites her lip.

Success! a reaction
he continues watching her with half-lidded interest
A game of teenaged cat-and-mouse
the thing is, who is which?

Poker faces.
Both pretend they do not wish to acknowledge the other
but every now and then her eyes swiftly rake across his face
as she glances up

The doors open; people leave.
She watches them with mild interest
acting as though she is completely engrossed
in their little bubbled worlds

She types, types, types...
What exactly is she typing, he wonders.
Who could she possibly be texting,
weaving words into ideas for?

Someone next to him stands to leave.
Brown pupils flick up much faster than they probably should.
Contact - across an aisle.
Her cheeks colour.

He would say more, but wait--
a screech of brakes
a jolt as the bus pulls to a stop
his stop.

***

She watches as he leaves
pulls out a cigarette and lights it
takes a drag
walks away without a second glance

Asshole.
He wasn't that cute anyway.


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