Someone please tell me what the fuck I was thinking when I wrote this.

It was a brisk Tuesday morning in February. The sun was not yet up, and her breath lingered in the air. She stood at the corner of the bus stop, leaning up against the stop sign. I pulled up, the brakes of the bus hissing loudly and angrily, and then I opened the door.

I would always try to line the door of the bus perfectly with her body. Her perfect, delicate, feminine frame. It was a sort of game I played, but that no one knew about. It was fun. It was good and harmless fun.

She picked up her bag carelessly and slung it over one shoulder.

“Morning, Arnie,” she said to me, smiling benignly, but I could barely hear her over her ear buds. She sat down in the third seat back on the left side; she always sat here, and everyone knew not to mess with that seat.