The brunette (Jenny, age twenty-two, last name concealed, a tall, slender Missouri Synod Lutheran, heading home from her first day of work as a junior auditor for a major pharmaceutical company, looking as business-like as one would expect, skirt politely below the knees, legs together, ankles crossed, hair pulled back in a polite bun, revealing a finely boned face with an expression too severe to be considered beautiful, and yet, still and all, a looker) is very pointedly not looking at the blonde across the aisle (first and last names both unknown, age thirty-five, forty tops, religious affiliation and profession impossible to guess, hair loosely pulled back, cheeks round and ruddy, blue eyes twinkling with amusement) who is reading a hard-cover library book in as sprawled a position as a human being can achieve in a bus seat and still be classified as sitting (legs in tight black pants spread wide, feet in square-toed, high-heeled, black leather boots pointed outward even further, breasts jutting up behind the book beneath a loose blue t-shirt, the neck hole in such disarray that it looks as though someone has had her hand down it tweaking a hard nipple) her lips moving as she reads, her breathing shallow, her smile ever widening.
Jenny, who is still not looking, can see from the title that it is one of those trashy sex novels she never reads, and she can tell that the blond is reading (and thoroughly enjoying) one of the sex scenes.
Jenny rings the bell and jumps up, almost tripping over her feet in her haste to reach the door. She has successfully resisted her attraction to other women for eight years, and she has to get off Now.
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