Bus

Soft heat seeped across the small space between their hands for just a second. The lumbering bus pulled through a stop with no one getting off and no one getting on and the jolt of the gears clicking into place threw them off balance. Her hand retreated into the pockets of her jacket, shuffling around for a second as if she was looking for something she knew wasn't there. All night he had tried to make their extremities touch. In the restaurant his feet shuffled blindly across the floor, hoping for an accidental brush with hers. He had planned to brusquely pull his feet away and apologize, hoping she'd say she didn't mind. Then he would be able to sit patiently, until his wandering led him back to her placidity and he could leave them there in order to find out how long it would take for her to pull away. The number of seconds, minutes, hours that they could remain locked in that blissful electricity would tell volumes. But he kept losing the nerve, and would pull backwards till he could see her worn-out sneakers underneath the table to put his feet right next to, passing the responsibility of collision onto her shoulders. But all night her movements eluded his.
The bus was quiet with tired drunks and bewildered travelers stuck staring out the windows. Their skin was tightly pushed against the cold glass as the night zoomed past them. Her dark and aromatic hair drew his eyes down to where the first curls began; her pale cheek and lively eyes were polarized by her hair. He pulled his hand back, embarrassed like a child caught stealing a dollar from his mother. He turned towards a mess of empty seats. Someone had written Fucking Love/Love Fucking with a blue marker on the green vinyl cover of one of them. He could feel the bus turning and the cold air rushing through the window across the aisle. Shielding his eyes, he turned back towards her white face, her brown hair, and her hazel eyes and felt the warmth of her hands leaping out of her pockets and across the seat and into his.