He was always there. I saw him every single day on the city bus. He was absolutely breathtaking. His short brown curls,  forest green eyes, the way his eyes creased ever so slightly at the sides. He looked to be a few years older than me, probably 23 or 24. I had a childish “crush” on the man who never seemed to notice me or anybody else on the bus, but it wasn’t my fault he was the living embodiment of the word gorgeous. Or so I perceived.
     Today was the day I was finally going to speak to him. Even if he didn’t take romantic interest in me, he’d be a fairly interesting friend. I practically skipped out of my shabby apartment  shared with junkies and crackheads that I never spoke to. I hated where I’m residing but I couldn’t afford much on my internship. Let alone the fact that I was literally drowning in student debt after college. Walking to the bus stop I physically felt sick and  thought I was gonna pass out. This always happens when I wanna do something big.
    My earbuds were streaming calming music straight to my ears and I felt the tension inside of me wash away. I was starting to feel better and then I saw it. The big gray death machine was turning the corner and I knew I wasn’t ready. I was praying to whatever was out there for the bus to be full so I’d have a reasonable excuse to sit next to him. I quickly speed walked to the bus stop, unplugged my earbuds, and stuffed them into my pocket.
    I had no clue what I was gonna say but all I knew was that I wasn’t ready to get on the stupid bus that always seemed to smell of laundry detergent and vinegar. I figured to just introduce myself to him, but what if that isn’t good enough. Hi my names Florence and I really wanna be your friend. No that’s not good enough. Hello, I’m Florence, what’s your name? I don’t have any more time to think about what to say because the bus pulls up to the curb.
    I climb on the bus, knowing that I’m going to see him in his usual seat, staring out a window. I scan the rows of seats, which are surprisingly full for a Tuesday morning. Then I  see him. He’s in his normal attire; a blazer over a white dress shirt, with suspenders and dressy pants. His gorgeous brown curls are pushed back effortlessly, and he looks breathtaking as always. I make my way to him and he doesn’t look up at me as I slide into the seat next to him. After sitting there for a few minutes, he still never looks away from the scenery passing by us.
    Finally, I decide to break the ice by saying, “Good morning, my name's Florence, what’s your name?” I mentally scold myself because this makes me sound like I’m in grade school. He turns to stare at me, his green eyes as wide as the moon. The man was aghast, and looks like he has just witnessed the slaughter of his family dog. After what feels like an eternity of him and I just staring at each other, and me taking in every inch of his ghostly pale face, he says in a very mellifluous voice,

“You shouldn’t be able to see me”