Impetuosity

She saw him at the bus stop, on a windswept Monday morning. The window was misted up, and she rubbed the sleeve of her red rain mac against it.

In the resulting fan-shaped clearing, she saw his hazel eyes, the blond locks falling over a pale face, the leather jacket. She caught his eye, and he smiled – a wrinkle-mouthed, knowing smile that lasted an instant.

And then the bus pulled away.

The next day, here was there too. And the following. But he was waiting for another bus, and this wasn’t her stop.

On Thursday, their eyes met again. And on a whim, she got off the bus. Walked up to him and, without a moment’s hesitation, kissed him full on the lips.

Then she turned on her heel, strode purposefully back to the bus, and narrowly missed being compressed by the hissing concertina doors. Took her seat, and stole a fleeting glance at him.

He stared.

On Friday, she looked out of the window, but he wasn’t there. Nor on the following Monday.

She never saw him again, that stranger at the bus stop. But she could still see the hazel eyes, and taste the soft fleshy lips.