My God, he thinks. I could hold her forever and never tire. He turns back to the window and considers public transport relationships and their possibilities.
She notices he’s sitting in the same spot, as usual. She shakes the snow from her coat and the cold from her bones as the bus-driver counts her change. She trips forward up the bus and take her seat beside him. She wants to tell him class was crap today and it’s cold weather, huh? But he is turned toward the window, his brow furrowed and mouth unreadable. He smells of pine wood and a faint masculine musk conjured only by those who labour for weekly pay. The bus bumps around a corner, sending the hat resting on his chest into her lap. She turns quickly to see him unaware and absorbed in his work; his fingertips trace patterns in the mist on the window. She coughs audibly and he looks at her with such intensity she nearly gasps. She lets him follow her gaze toward the hat.

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