Usually she rides the bus to work with both of them, getting on at her stop a few blocks after them, squeezing in between them, chirping excitedly to the girl, the guy pretending to focus on his shoes, or his book, or his computer, pointedly not looking at her, pointedly not noticing how different she is from his dark-haired, calm, seething beneath the surface, controlling girlfriend. They don't always catch the same bus in. Much less frequently they ride the same bus home. This evening, and this is a little awkward, the girl called in sick, and the guy is on the same bus as her going home. She sits next to him, not sure what to do, since it is the girl she talks to on the bus, and is both relieved and miffed when he ignores her, pulling out his computer and playing a game, his hip against her hip on the seat, his arm beside her arm, his strong arm muscles twitching, his large hands on the keyboard.

He must have skype, and a webcam, and some sort of satellite card on the computer, because the game is interrupted by the girlfriend, calling from home. So she sits there next to him, watching her talk to his girlfriend, not mentioning her presence, probably not visible on the camera, feeling slightly like she is somehow cheating by being there unmentioned, but not at all like cheating since he is still ignoring her, and goes back to his game.

She tries to make small talk, and he answers with the shortest possible answers like ever, hip still against her hip, arm still against her arm, muscles still twitching, big hands still moving skillfully across the keyboard and the trackball. Very conscious of the touching she draws herself back, primly upright, watching from a slightly further distance, feels herself drawn back in, leans back toward him, asks a question about the game, pointing at the screen, touching his shoulder and almost grazing his chest as she points, her long, bare, short skirted leg further from the other leg than she would normally sit, pressing against his leg. He explains it to her, still not looking. She is more flustered now than miffed or relieved.

It is a long ride, and coming to an end. She is shocked by how far they have gotten in what seems so little time. Still ignoring her he pulls a cell phone out and calls home. She is not sure why he didn't use skype, cannot ignore his end of the conversation. "Almost home, yep, yep, oh yeah, not quite, but definitely getting there," refuses to think that she might be the topic of conversation, but cannot resist that nagging feeling, being, as she usually is, the perky center of attention.

When the bus approaches her corner she does not ring the bell, but continues to focus on him as he closes up the computer and puts it in his bag, chirping mindlessly as he rings the bell for his stop two blocks later, the computer bag slung over his shoulder, still not getting a reaction as they step down in to the bus shelter on his, definitely his, deserted corner.

The bus shelter light is lit, there is a street light, it is nowhere near as dark as where they waited together to catch the bus home, but she shudders with a sudden chill, maybe a sudden thrill, on this unseasonably warm early November evening, as he turns, looking at her for real, head on, for the first time since the ride began, as he looks at her, tall, cute, nervous, excited, pushes her back into the lit ad of the bus stop, interrupting her, kissing her, tongue against tongue, spreading her legs with that big hand, feeling her wetness, chest against chest, feeling the pressure of her nipples, fingering her to a rapid orgasm, right there, on a corner in the heart of the city, and as she stands, panting, knees buckling, holding her up with his left hand, he pulls the cell phone from his pocket and calls home again. "Now," he says, breathing unevenly with excitement, "Now she's ready."