He watched her.
Oh, he watched her.
Remember how she smelled in California? When other cars made it difficult for their bus driver to turn, gravity pulled her body into his, and his heart soared.
She smelled like syrup. Like syrup on cupcakes. Like vanilla creme. Cream puffs.
Cream puffs. That's what they would call each other. They would get married. They would have pet names. They would sit on buses and not wait for gravity to bring them back together.
He watched her.
He breathed, looking for courage to approach.
He opened his mouth to form pretty vowels, wanting his first hello to be as perfect as her face. Her face. Her face turned, feeling sunlight, and he was on his way.
Two steps later and his heart broke into pieces. Someone else plopped down upon his spot beside her on the lucky lucky bench. He froze.
The thin Indian woman was Bindi. Lucy hadn't seen her since high school. Cowboy stood in his place, listening to Lucy's voice curve into beautiful bell curves and drift over his eyes like vanilla cream.
He reached out his hand to touch her, feeling fuzzy electricity on his fingers, and he froze, two paces away. After a time he realized other passersby flew in and out.
A door slammed. He heard a toilet flush. He came back to life as if out of a dream, placing the hand that reached firmly into his pocket and the other brushed the invisible dust off the back of his neck. He turned, broken heart leaning like a dizzy bus on two wheels, turning corners into madness.
He found himself in a men's bathroom, and closed the door.
Three dark skinned men spoke another language in hushed tones beside him.
Was is Arabic? African? He didn't know. He didn't care. He watched a fake mustache fall to the floor beside his left foot. A dark skinned hand hurriedly reached out to rescue the accidental fur, with an Arabic/African expletive. Indian. Maybe Indian. Maybe these were Bindi's people. Whoever they were, he didn't like them.
They had stolen his girl.
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