The beautiful girl standing beside Possum on the bus didn’t look up from her book. Which he though was just as well. He wouldn’t know what do to if she did. Smile, maybe. Hope she says something first. He could say how he’s been reading poetry lately. Plath and Williams. Or Carlos Williams. He wasn’t sure where the Carlos fell. The bus lurched, jostling the passengers. Stiff-armed, Possum made sure he didn’t move, didn’t brush his shoulder against hers.
He got through work and went home. It’d started raining just after lunch, and puddles filled the potholes in the road.