Rider

Her fingers were clasping the bus window’s groove like it was the last thing she’d know. She didn’t look too distraught, but Spiderman 3 didn’t look like it’d be too bad of a movie. Longingly, she peered out the tinted window, rummaging the landscape for a pleasing sight, or a one-second-savior. I was interested in her gaze, but only for the few minutes the bus ride lasted. Once it was over, I, like her, would continue on with my day. Going to my apartment, writing, and she, whatever her sore heart convinced her to do. Yet, my time spent in her presence was not I feeling remorse for her. Instead, it was spent with curiosity peaked. Earphones in, to quell the superfluous banter of our fellow bus riders, I was able to focus on my subject. Her hands continued to clench the window, and move along it as if it were a gravestone, pleading to be felt. The other riders weren’t like me, for they paid no attention to her. Their eyes were aloof to the pain the windows reflected. But I couldn’t look away. Her sorrowful eyes begged to be held, and known, and spoken to. How I dreamt what it would be to continue on with her: to depart this track, this bus, and board another with her, ditch my own. The thought seemed so feasible, so soothing, yet it was ephemeral. And as her fingers slowly migrated back to her face pushing a stray lock of gold behind her ear, I knew it could never come to pass. Her eyes promised certainty, yet I knew mine could only offer deceit, and half-heartedly at that. I couldn’t bear the feeling of not forever pleasing this princess, if I were to please her at all. Her ethereality looming over me, eternally scoffing at me: “IF YOU KNEW YOU COULDN’T PLEASE ME, THEN WHY DID YOU TAKE MY HAND?” And as for my answer, to my majestic princess bride, I would have none. My tongue would freeze still, and its icy coolness wouldn’t be enough to bring me out of the river of despair I had plunged myself, and her, into. My failure was imminent; she knew it better than I.
I am forced to look instead; “just look.” She says, face clad virgin-white, flower covered. So, I just look. The bus comes to a halt, and the other riders, she, and I, all stand up to get off.
“Thank you,” I say to the driver. For a moment, I follow her; or rather, we both head in the same direction. But she veers off, and I tread on left, left with my look.