She is dressed, as usual, in very little, and what little there is is very tight. She works, I presume, in the sort of job where a little skin, a great body, and a youthful face makes a big difference in how much you earn.

She is still sleepy, not fully aware of her surroundings, still waking up. Obviously she works too hard, but I cannot support every woman in the world.

She has noticed, as she wakens, that there is stuff on her polo shirt. Nothing as disastrous as a stain, but still stuff, probably dryer lint, across her chest, which will never do, so she begins to swipe at it with her hands, running them across her breasts, across where her nipples surely are beneath the shirt.

The more she swipes the more she gets into it. The stuff, whatever it was, is long gone, and yet her fingers continue to trail back and forth across her chest.

She has not yet looked up, has not really considered that she is riding on a bus. Her back arches just a little, off the seat, every time her fingernails hit the magic points.

She soon forgoes the stroking and begins flicking the nipples, both of them at once, with her nails.

That's when somebody else pulls the cord to signal they want the bus to stop. That's when she realizes where she is and snaps out of it, staring around wildly, pulling her hands from her breasts, seeing me watching her.

She stands, avoiding my gaze, and walks, eyes cast down to the door.

I watch her get off, thrilled by the experience, disappointed by the outcome, anticipating the next ride, worried about awkwardness and avoidance.

But just as she steps off, her head turns, just briefly in my direction.

She smiled at me. I saw it. Nobody will ever be able to take that from me.