Since late May I have been taking a 6:30am bus to the train station to make my daily jaunt into the nation’s capital. Since late May I have almost every day been joined on the bus, two stops after I get on, by a rather attractive woman about my age. ‘M—’ is not beautiful in the ordinary way—her lower lip thrusts too far forward, her nose is too prominent, her cheekbones are flatter than one might hope, her toes turn slightly outward, giving an ever-so-distant hint of a limp to her walk. Yet her ice-blue eyes are bright and clear, her voice is pleasant and forthright, and her wispy but perfectly coiffed wheat-colored hair surrounds her head like a Giotto halo. She dresses sharply but comfortably, usually wearing grey or black wool slacks and a button-down, half-sleeved, soft-colored shirt. She is poised but demure, reserved but affable. She generally keeps to herself, but when engaged in light talk by a stranger she will usually respond openly, with a smile. I took interest the moment she first stepped onto the bus, but my inability to approach her has steadily grown increasingly oppressive.

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