I saw him first on the bus. Lean, muscular and so young. He did not seem
to care how he dressed, torn jeans, t-shirt with some advertising slogan
on it. Loose, unlaced sneakers and a baseball cap.

I felt his eyes on me. Dressed for the office, I shivered inside my
polyester and cotton armor. His eyes traced my lashes, my cheeks, my
lips. I knew he was memorizing my face. I blushed.

I shifted in my seat. We faced each other but at right angles, he
sitting in a seat that folded up if a wheelchair had to be loaded into
the bus. I could not avoid his gaze unless I changed seats and all the
seats were filled. He smiled.

I looked out the window. Twenty-sixth street seemed very far away. I
could get off the bus and take a cab or brave the subway. I hated the
subway and I couldn't afford a cab. I felt him still watching me. In the
window glass, I could see a reflection, just the bright olors of his hat
and t-shirt, the lettering reversed. ekiN. I wondered if he might be a
member of a streetgang.

The bus lurched to a stop and my seatmate departed. No one took the
seat, I looked around to see him still watching me from across the bus
aisle. The bus started up again, at least a dozen more stops. Grasping
the pole he stood; leaning against the bus's acceleration, he levered
himself across the aisle, his arm muscles bulging.=20

He sank into the seat beside me and I felt his heat next to my leg. I
tried to scoot over but bus seats are narrow and he was deliberately
taking up room. I looked up into his eyes, brown and deep and warm. He
smiled. Would a gangsta smile at someone on the bus? He wore an earring
in his left ear, a simple stud.

We rode like that through the theater district and between the big
buildings of the thirties. I felt doubly glad I had showered that
morning. I smelt his warm skin, his maleness, he seemed cleaner than a
street gangsta would likely be. I wondered if he had illegal drugs on
him.

I kept turning to look out the window. I couldn't look directly at him
without turning my head and when looking straight ahead I was aware that
he had turned to look at me. He shifted to put one of his long arms
along the back of my chair and his big hand fell into my gaze as I
stared out toward the Bronx and the East River some blocks away.

I turned to face forward again, to avoid looking at his hand. "You're
beautiful," he said to me. I shivered, no one tells me that I am
beautiful. I pulled my sensible dress-for-success shoes together and
squeezed my thighs and my knees tightly together. I shook my head.

"Yes, you are," he insisted. Are gangstas polite and well-spoken even
when they're taking liberties with your personal space? Perhaps he was
an actor. "What's your stop?" he asked.

"Twenty-sixth," I whispered. I don't know why I answered at all.

"Do you work in a bank?"

I nodded. My lips trembled.

"Banks suck."

I laughed nervously. The pay certainly does. I tried to say that outloud
but could not manage it.

"This is your stop coming up," he said. I started. He reached across me
to pull the stop cord and his masculine smell filled my head and the
view of his muscular shoulder blocked my vision.

I made a noise, a squeak probably. He stood as the bus stopped and
offered a hand to help me up. I gathered my things and stood without
taking his hand but the bus lurched as it stopped completely and  I fell
against him. He caught me easily and helped me stand.

I staggered off the bus and turned to watch it start up and lumber away.
He had changed seats again so that he could look out at me. I wanted to
call to him, to give him my number or ask for his.

I went upstairs to the office and into the bathroom and locked myself in
a stall. I pulled down my waistband and fingered myself, and shivered
when I came suddenly with hardly any effort. Then I used the other hand
to wad up tissue to clean up the mess.

I wondered if I dared ride the bus home?