There’s a thin woman sitting ahead of me and to the right. Her back is turned away so I can see her bony fingers move slowly along the keyboard to tell Greyhound where she wants to go. Black running clothes cover most of her, but the pink on her running shoes accent and feminize. She’s oblivious to the fact that my peripheral vision is, and always has been, spot-on. I catch her when she turns her head to look at me every five minutes or so. She rests there for a moment, to stare, maybe out of curiosity, familiarity, or concern, then turns back around to continue typing with her right hand. Does she think I can’t see her? Or is her attraction strong enough to employ this faux pas? Really, I don’t care. But I think if I meet her eyes next time, lift my foot, and push out the chair opposite of me so that she could come sit down, she would, wearing a shy face of embarrassment. Then I’d confess my own faux pas of spying and ask her where she’s going.
