It started out as just another bus ride into the city.
He had been daydreaming, staring out at buildings as they went by. She had been peering into the bus, looking to see how full it was. He found himself staring back at her as the bus pulled up at the stop. It was her bright blue eyes that caught his attention. He watched, as she worked her way along looking for a seat. If only he wasn’t so much of a romancer. He felt a thrill run through him when she stopped, looking around. She gave just a flicker of a smile and sat down next to him. Out of the corner of his eye he watched as she took a book from her bag. She opened it at the bookmark and began to read.
He sat for a while wondering how he could start up a conversation with her. He caught the title and could see it was a book of poems by a Percival somebody he had never heard of. He considered the possibility that she wasn’t going all the way in to town. She may get off at the next stop! He had to think fast.
“Now, there’s a coincidence,” he said, trying to sound casual.
She turned her blue eyes on him. “Pardon?”
“The book,” he smiled, “I read it just a few weeks back.”
“Oh! Really?”
“Yes, sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt you; just thought it was one heck of a coincidence, that’s all.”
“That’s OK,” she said and went back to the book. She carried on reading for a while, then suddenly, she stopped reading and closed the book. “What did you think of him?” she asked.
“Pardon?”
“The poet; what did you think of him?” she repeated.
“Oh! Yes, well, brilliant, of course. He has such a wonderful way with words.”
Her face clouded a little. She looked surprised and disappointed at the same time.
He said, “What?”
“I guess that would make us pretty incompatible.” She smiled as she put her book back in her bag.
“It would?”
“Oh! Definitely.”
He was afraid to ask, but did anyway. “You’re not so keen on him?”
“Oh! I think he’s really dreadful!”
“You do?”
“I certainly do.”
“Why read him then?”
She pulled a long face. “Not through choice, I can assure you of that. It’s just part of my English studies. He’s just one of three very different poets that we have to write a paper on. You know, to compare them.” She stood up saying, “My stop.” She smiled and her eyes twinkled. She moved to the door. The bus stopped. She was gone; lost in the crowd.
If only… if only he’d told the truth. What if he had asked if the book was any good? What if he had said he really didn’t know much about poetry? Would she have enjoyed telling him all the things that she found awful about the poet’s work? Would they have got into a deep conversation?
Anything could have happened. Before she got off she could have scribbled her phone number down on a scrap of paper. They could have caught up for a coffee and a chat from time to time. They could have done this more and more regularly over a few weeks. They could have gone steady. She could have gone on to complete her studies. He could have finished night school. They could have married. They could have saved up and bought a house. They could have had children. They…
The bus reached his stop with a jolt. He got off. If only he wasn’t so much of a romancer.
He never saw her again.