Unconventional is the word that lingers on my lips as I watch her. Girls like her are why boys like me exist. She looks like a “Scarlet.” The natural curve of her waist lures my eyes from her glossy auburn hair, the kind coveted by mermaids. I scan the bus seats around her for her friends; they’re empty. I wonder if she is going home to an empty bedroom, then reproach myself for such an obtrusive thought. Delicate fingers retrieve a chewed pencil from her purse. She deliberately brings it to her chapped red lips; thoughtful, pensive. I watch fragile minutes of my life crushed under bus wheels, cast away to the curb with the rest of the roadkill. I look over at her, but she appears unnerved by the passing of time. She remains inside her head, where only she is in control; a queen in her own right.