I waited for you at the bus stop–I knew you would be there. You're always there, usually around three, getting off from what seemed like a taxing day's work. Your dark hair lightly disheveled, falling into your face as you step off of the bus, briefcase and novel loosely at your side. You looked exhausted, to say the least, but in the most endearing and delicate way.
I watched you fumble with your keys before unlocking your black BMW X3, lightly tossing the contents of your day into the backseat with little regard for where they settled.
As you stepped into your car you turned to confront my gaze, flushing at the unexpected attention. I knew you were shy about those types of things, which is why I loved to be caught giving it to you. Admiration–from what I could tell–was something I'd figured you weren't entirely used to. No one seemed to notice the way your dark curls fell in your eyes, or your glasses sinking down to the tip of your nose. Or the way you pressed all of your suits every single day, afraid a wrinkle or crease would deteriorate your professional credibility.
They didn't ask about the book you were currently reading, or how your most recent project was coming along. I wanted to know all of these things, but of course I couldn't ponder any further outside of my own internal inquiries.
We don't know each other, not really, not at all. I'd like to know you, of course, but every opportunity feels wrong, callous even. Like I'm forcing introductions onto you with unwanted exploitation.
I don't even know your name.
Suddenly you're standing in front of me with determination in your eyes, bringing me out of my thoughts quickly and taking my breath along with it, "Hello."
I take a few muddled steps backwards and regain consciousness, "Oh, hi."
You shift your weight to one side, making yourself more casual–I presume, "I've seen you here a lot. You never get on or off of the bus, you just stand there. I was wondering why that is?"
I bite my lower lip in anxiety, "Oh, um," I glanced around myself, searching for any sort of rational explanation, "Yeah I live around here."
"So you just hang out around the bus stop on occasion?" You pressed, a smug smile playing at his lips.
I nod, "I guess I do."
You shift your weight again, "Well, I've noticed something else, if you don't mind."
I remain stagnant, wide-eyed, awaiting your next movement.
"You seem to stare at me an awful lot. I'd wanted to confront you about it but I figured it wasn't directed at me, necessarily. And even now, I could be wrong still. But, I thought I would ask, just because I'm curious now," you said in a matter-of-fact way.
I did not know how to respond to such an accusation. Of course you were right about everything, but should I allow you to know that? How would you react to such an odd and somewhat disturbing confession? It may be considered a mild form of stalking, and you see, I never anticipated this conversation. I'd figured I would go on with life never speaking to you, never knowing your name.
But here we are, "Well, I think I am staring at you. I'm sorry for that."
You flush immediately, red lightly staining your cheeks in such an endearing way, "Oh, don't be sorry."
Neither of us say anything else until you regain yourself again, "I think maybe I'd wished you'd say something to me, rather than silently watch from afar. Or I should have said something, but either way, I appreciate the flattery."
In this moment I'd assumed you would have left me there, slightly disturbed by the entire thing; but instead, you stayed put, extending your hand outwards towards me, "I'm France."
France. Not exactly what I was expecting.
I shake your hand briefly before pulling away, staring into your dark emerald eyes, "Cass."
You beam and I melt, "Nice to meet you, Cass. Tell me, where's your favorite place to get espresso? Good espresso, not anything fast-food tasting."
I return your bright smile, considering your question for a bit, "Hmm, there's a local shop right down the street, a few blocks from here. You might like it."
"Well, let's go then," you turn away from me and begin to walk down the sidewalk, glancing behind yourself as if to see if I'd follow.
Which, I did.