She was cute, no doubt about it. In her 30’s, blonde-ish (multiple shades) of neck-length straight hair, bright and alert blue eyes, not too tall, had some curves that were both somewhat hidden by her long black sweater (worn over a white t-shirt and black pants) and somewhat emphasized by the strap of her black bike messenger bag worn so that the strap separated her cleavage.
She sat in profile to me, she in one of the side-facing seats on the bus, me in one of the front-facing seats further back. I wanted to say “hey” just because of our proximity. If I’d had more booze in me (and since this was at 10:00 AM on a Saturday morning, by “some” I mean “any”) I would have just said it and not over-thought the consequences. But I was as sober as the bus driver was, and over-thinking… well, it’s pretty much what I do.
So we sat there on the bus, each in our own thoughts, as we rode to our separate destinations. I tried not to stare but wasn’t too worried about appearing so, safe behind my dark sunglasses and the convenient excuse of our seating arrangement.
Five or ten minutes later she rang the bell for her stop, and as she stood up and turned to walk off the bus, I saw a line drawing, in white, on the flap of her messenger bag.
It was Trogdor.
There, on her bag, openly displayed.
As I watched her get off the bus and walk out of my life, I realized that, yes, indeed, she was cool.