A girl sits before you, deep in concentration.
You don't know her, and you've never seen her,
But somehow the innocence of this twenty year old is drawing you in,
Slowly, but surely,
Until you have to know her name.

It frightens you, this need,
So you concentrate instead on features.
Slowly, you memorize her every line,
Color,
Shape,
And detail.

Her forehead looks a bit too big,
But you know it's only because her hair is pulled back,
In a tight ponytail.
She was working out,
running maybe.
Still her face is red and blotchy,
As the heat and work slowly fade away.

Her nose, you notice,
Is what they might call a ski jump.
With only her profile seen, it's quite apparent.
Seemingly forever it slopes down to her mouth,
then flips up at the end.

The mouth it's leading to is nowhere near as socially unacceptable
as this turned up nose is.
Her lips are large,
Luscious,
As well they should.
As women are told to look,
Like Angelina Jolie.

But you don't care about that,
You never were one for looks, but rather brains.
The book she's reading, you note,
Is by Jodi Picoult.
A local author from New England as you are.

Despite the slight chill of early Spring,
Her clothing is somewhat sparse.
The cloth shorts everyone seems to wear,
Soffes maybe.
A blue tank top hugs her figure,
A purple bra contrasting underneath.
Running sneakers are on her feet.
She must have been running or jogging,
Since your small town is too rural
To hold anything as sophisticated as a gym.

Her hair is messy too,
As someone who has been running.
The motions had caused wisps of the hair to escape her elastic.
The beautiful, nearly-black color reached the middle of her back,
Despite being pulled back so hard it tugs her forehead.
The stray hairs had curled into neat little ringlets,
Framing her face like shining rays
Glowing off of a halo.

But none of it amazes you more,
Than how absolutely rapt she is,
Absorbed with only the book she is holding.
She does not notice you,
Even as you become involved with your study,
Of how important female curves are.
Not in a perverse way,
But rather your own peculiar amazement.

The slope of the ankle,
Connecting the foot to the shin.
The curves on either side of her knees,
Stemming from the curves of her calves,
Leading up to her thighs.
Her elbow,
Which is an odd angle on one side,
As she cradles her book,
But a smooth curve on the other.
Her neck, her chin,
Her nose and ears.
It all astounds you.

Your next focus is her veins,
And how apparent they are,
Under her nearly translucent skin.
Having spent a cold and snowy winter inside,
All traces of unnatural darkness in everyone's skin
Has gone into hibernation with the bears.
They are most apparent on that soft curve,
The one inside of her elbow.
They are a map of blues, purples, and greens,
And you can't help but wonder,
Wonder where it goes and where it leads.

You never thought yourself to be a thinker,
Until this very bus ride.
You never thought yourself to be a writer either,
But your head became filled with stories.



Where are the people on the bus going?
What is the story of the girl you are so spellbound by?
The college boy down the row –
Is he homeless?
Is he lazy?
Or is he just naturally this unkempt?
Learning peoples' stories becomes more to you,
It becomes your want,
Your hobby,
And your need.

Thought you never found her name,
Nor her story,
Nor if she even lived in that city,
You have imaged a thousand stories,
All centered around her.
That girl and the other people on the bus that day,
Now live in your head,
Swimming around in all different forms,
Slowly sliding out through your fingertips,
Through your pen,
And neatly and crisply onto your paper.