The Boy on the Bus

You know when you're driving along and you see the back of someone - usually a slim woman with tight jeans and one of those swinging pony tails.

You just have to turn round and look at the front don’t you?

Yesterday there was someone in my favourite front seat upstairs on the bus. So I settled for the seat behind.

I found myself staring in fascination at the hair of the lad in front. Red is the wrong word to describe it - this was not ginger - no similarity to Chris Evans.

It was russet, chestnut, titian, auburn - the gentle curl was beautiful - no frizz, just soft, undulating and sinuous. It turned up gently behind the ear and I wanted to touch it.

I was very close.

I longed to see his face but I could only glimpse a few freckles. During the ten minute bus ride it became an obsession.

We reached Owens Park and he didn't get off with the hordes of students. My stop was approaching and he was showing no movement. I had to go down the stairs and alight.

I looked back at the top window.
He had a very ordinary face.

KAZ