Chronicles of Curiosity

0.2

     I close my eyes, focusing to slow my breathing after a surge of adrenaline. The moment prior, filled with the brash decision to plop down next to him, washes away and leaves me with no regrets. My body heat transferring to the cool leather seat sends chills down my spine. I stretch my arms arching high towards the ceiling, taking the opportunity to read my seat neighbor.

His tall stature was presently crunched into the space, knees awkwardly pressing into the corner, and head resting on the window pane. As the bus rattled and crossed potholes, his head would rap against the side. I grimace, but his face remains unchanged.

Night consumes the bus, but every so often light beams through the dusted windows, just enough to make out the finer details within his silhouette. Why must you board public transit with unnecessary authority? A scar is revealed running across his left cheek as he whips his attention to me. What's the story behind that? Could you have fought scum for work, or maybe earned it in a scheme as a child? It doesn't appear fresh. And surely the darkness isn't concealing my curious eyes, especially since he's unwavering in gazing back.

Insistent mutual staring is characteristic of both couples compatible for romance and those with high levels of resistance training. More likely the latter, I should think. Trust only holds lovers gazes like this. This man does not trust anyone, barely himself it seems. His hands grip tight onto his crossed forearms. His jaw sets as my eyes travel to the hairline faded into a nearly military cut. He breaks eye contact and shuts away toward the window once more.

Time passes by with the toll of each light-post we pass. The seat shifts upward, and I turn to see him standing and stepping over my form in the seat. Somehow he does this without any hinderance from the obstacle in his cramped path: me. Upon reaching the aisle he swiftly taps Tobias on the shoulder and raises a brow, a gesture to pull the bus over. With the press of the brakes, pull of a lever, and click on the steps, he's out of sight.

I swiftly twist my torso to search out the window behind me. Did he ever hit the pavement? There are few lamps on the streets, but a couple flickering fluorescents highlight the off-putting broken windows from within. I would imagine he would be out of place here. Oh well, c'est la vie. Scooting back to my original niche by the window, something catches on the underside of my uniform. I reach down and my finger-pads discover the cool feel of card-stock. Without enough lighting to see anything well, I slide the paper object into my bag for further inspection later.