Even though I’d skipped breakfast, sprinted down the street with my shoes untied and my bag hanging precariously on one shoulder, I just barely managed to catch the bus, panting as I scanned my pass and looked around for an empty seat.

There were none, of course. The 85, which I usually took, came fifteen minutes earlier and a seat on there was all but guaranteed. This bus, the 90, was always packed like a festival procession - except the colours and dancing women were replaced by greys and old men. 

So I stood in an empty space by the window, finally getting a chance to check my phone. I don’t know why I checked my phone every morning. I’d check Snapchat first, but, as usual, I’d received no messages. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t a loner. I had at least thirty contacts on Snap, and someone did occasionally send me a meme or something. It was really my own fault that no one texted me anymore. I hardly texted them, after all - I was far too busy for that. 

I browsed for a while, before the bus got too crowded for me to respectably scroll through my social media feed. So I turned my gaze to the window, watching the dull greys of the street pass by, grey as stone, grey as the clouds. You’d think in March, the greys would finally give way to colour. But not in the UK - here, grey was the rule. As such, when a tall woman paid for a ticket and turned to face the aisle, her satin red shirt bold against the blue interior of the bus, she caught my gaze easily.

 And, for a moment, looking through her wire-frame glasses, she held it, too. 

She must’ve been in her mid-20s. Her dark hair was clipped back on one side, the rest of it shiny and wavy, flowing into the red of her shirt, which was sleeveless and tucked in, emphasising her bust. A black skirt covered her lower half, tight against her wide hips, only reaching half-way down her thighs. I followed the strong curves of her legs - obscured slightly, by her dark tights - down to stylish ankle boots. Ankle boots that were heading towards me. 

She gave me a smile as she pushed her way down the aisle and stopped before me, raising one arm to reach the overhead handhold. I looked past her, through the opposite window, not wanting to stare. It was only when the bus started moving that I realised that, at some point during my gawking, I had put my hands in my pockets, and all the handholds around me had been claimed already. There was the bar directly behind me, but it was covered in a strange, sticky substance that I refused to touch. 

Well, it was no problem, anyway. I planted my feet firmly on the ground, resting one hand on the window for support, and did my best to maintain my balance as the bus driver decided he was running a little too late for his liking. I got the hang of it after a while, and started to steal glances towards the woman next to me. I noticed now that she had the top of her shirt unbuttoned… had it been like that before? 

I cast the thought from my mind. Of course it had. Besides, who cared? More importantly, below the folds of her shirt, I only saw bare skin. No cloth, no lace… no bra. I imagined slipping my hand under her shirt and groping her. How would those breasts feel in my hand? Firm? Soft? I had no idea. The only experience I had with breasts came from adult video games, and not the kind that require haptic gloves. I felt a shifting in my trousers.

I turned my gaze back to the window. I was wearing light-coloured joggers, and standing up. A boner would be easily visible to anyone who happened to be looking. I tried to stop it, but it was too late now. My cock was growing, getting harder, and, most worryingly, pressing against my trousers, forming a rather obvious bulge. My body was used to getting a little self-love at this time in the morning, but I’d woken up far too late to indulge myself today. 

I felt her closeness to me, her breath on my ear, before I heard her quiet words: “I like your trousers,” she said. One benefit of having dark skin is that my blushing is barely noticeable. And there was no way I was going to embarrass myself in front of a woman this hot. So I turned to her, taking a deep breath.

“Thanks. I like your shirt.”

Her lips curved into a smile. I noticed her eyes were blue behind her glasses. She had one of those faces that makes you want to take up portrait-drawing. 

“What about my skirt?” she said, moving her hips a little, presumably to show off the skirt. But the skirt was simple, plain and black, and though I have very little experience with women, I’d wager she really wanted me to see how the skirt hugged her firm, curved ass. Whatever her intentions were, that's what I took away from it. And my boner, which had been failing, sprung to life again. 

“It’s lovely,” I said, and not wanting to seem rude, I added, “where did you get it?” 

“Ann Summers.” she said, matter-of-factly.

“Never heard of it.”

She smiled, “Never go shopping with your girlfriend?”

I wondered if she was mocking me, but I smiled back, keeping my cool, “I’m single.”

“Oh, of course. I can tell.” she said, with no particular inflection.

If I hadn’t been focusing so much on coming off as cool and distant, that one might’ve got to me. But to the character I was playing, this woman, hot or not, was a nobody. So I simply shrugged, smiled, and said, “Is it that obvious? Yes, I am single. Just like you.”

It was a risky assumption, but a risk I was willing to take. My stop was only a few minutes away now. If things turned sour, I’d have an easy way out. 

Her smile grew wider, and for a second it was almost a grin, before she regained her composure, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to cause offence.”

“None taken. I-”

The bus took a sharp left, the driver cursing and honking at someone on the road. Wrapped up in conversation, I had lifted the hand resting on the window, and my stance had become unstable. Thrown off balance, I stumbled towards her. Not wanting to accidentally grope her, I kept my arms by my sides, but I wasn’t able to stop myself face-planting into her chest.

They were soft.

She wrapped her free arm around me, looking down at me as I straightened up, no longer able to hide my embarrassment. Murmurs and fragments of laughter sprung up around us. But I hardly noticed them. With her arm around me, looking up into those blue, knowing eyes… I felt safe and excited and nervous and calm at the same time. We were so close, I would’ve barely had to move to kiss her, though I’d be craning my neck because of her boots. The moment only lasted a second, but, in my memory, it has all the slow pleasure of a long, warm bath. 

I stepped away from her, returning to my spot by the window. 

“I’m so sorry,” I said, looking down at the ground. 

“Don’t be,” she said, a smirk playing on her lips as she adjusted her shirt, “it’s hard to resist, I don’t blame you.”

I lowered my voice, “Hey, I didn’t do that on purpose.”

She leaned in close, her face next to mine again, “No…unfortunately, you didn’t.”

I barely had time to process this before the bus came to a stop, right outside the supermarket where I’d grab a snack before college. I gave her one last look, shouldering my bag. Was she flirting with me? I didn’t think so. She was much older than me, for one. Although I’d been told on my eighteenth birthday that I looked well beyond my age.

Still, I didn’t want to ask for her number. Or rather, I wanted to, but wasn’t sure if it was appropriate. I was ninety-nine percent sure she was just a playful woman, who never passed up the opportunity to tease a man. If she was really interested, she would’ve asked for mine, right?

Besides, I had decided a long time ago that women are more trouble than they’re worth. 

“Have a nice day,” I said as pleasantly as I could.

 She smiled, offering a lazy wave. 

Stepping onto the street, I resisted the urge to look back as the grumbling of the bus engine faded, then disappeared altogether.