The B-Line or Cloud 9 ?

It's not my normal way to work. I'm on a different route, not my usual bus, there is no skytrain at all on this journey. I haven't changed jobs, no I haven't, but this commute is changing my mood. Stand in line like cows herding to the pastures in the morning. I miss a bus because it's too full, no more room. A blessing I will be thankful for. If I see so many here with me, how can I feel alone, today it's just stress. The bus I take is crowded with only one spot for standing room directly in front of me. Missing that last bus was a good thing. It only stops at three stops before I get off, you were at the second. The only spot near the front door, you came towards me, no eye contact. You are full of power, in this bus, which steals mine. Your skin is soft and flawless, but some how not perfect. Hair tied back in a braid, you use your umbrella to hook the overhead hand rail. Leveraging the handle to lean over and adjust your bag, you have two of them, this one over your shoulder. You are facing the other direction, your back against my chest, but not touching. I can feel a small twinge of energy. Eerily, I am moved; by such a stranger? Your scent familiar, is full of fruit, it's your hair; no your essence. Feeling so closely like a commercial the bus stops abruptly. We don't bump, I try hard to make sure of it. I feel as if you are purposefuly ignoring me, by choice. I'm so wrapped up in my head game, I don't notice the girl next to us who's smiled at me. The next few blocks are jerky, with lots of turbulance, but I'm so taken by everything. Your jacket is made of dark denim, your skirt flowing, with elegant and simple shoes. I consider the possibilities of our social circles overlapping. Afterall, some of your decor looks hand made. Especially your earrings, they have been crafted by someone who cared. Sleek twisted curves with brown marble stone at the droops of each spiral. I get lost in the swirls, I think about how I could possibly know you in real life; I am swept away by fantasy. My thoughts sifting through a made up future, where the bus represents our lives. Some times turbulant, sometimes smooth, but always in sync. Swaying together through the entire ride, our arms are both at a ninety degree angle, holding the bar above us. As we shift they move perfectly as one, like the turning wheels of a car. Have I been looking at your neck? That's not good, this is a bus. Is this my stop? I find myself moving away from you quickly, the fantasy leaves my mind- just as fast. The eternity of that moment, the depth of our possibilities, is simply past. As I step off the bus love is in the air and it's not Monday; but I'm a little wiser. Now I haven't asked you your name, again...