Bus stop

She was waiting at the bus stop I was about to sit down at, outside Station Square. Pretty and slim, with ponytail-tied straight hair, she looked one everything with a casual attitude of "I-don't-care", like most people who wait at bus stops. She craned her neck every once in a while to check for incoming buses, which led me to ask which route she was taking. When her route number coincided with mine, our conversation lengthened, and as it was nearing midnight, we proposed we take a cab together if the bus were to not show up.

When our bus arrived, we boarded it together, I slightly disappointed, but we continued talking in the bus. She told me how her waitress job at Buca di Beppo exhausted her, and she looked forward to drinking some wine and going to sleep. A little later, she walked to my side of the bus, and we exchanged names. April. Pretty name. Thank you.

But the bus reached my stop too soon, and I had no good reason to stay and keep talking to her. I said goodbye, debussed, and she left.

And now I wish it had been otherwise, and we had drunk wine together at her place, and known each other better. And now, a week later, I still think of her.

Mini-infatuations, how often do they occur? Whims of romance glued together by lust. I've had so many more than I remember, but at each's time I can not forget them.