public transportation

In the seconds between now and forever are this brusque, abrasive man's fingers entangled with mine for the briefest of moments -- for once gentle and only urging and not at all brusque and abrasive like I had expected them to be -- and suddenly I am realizing that they are also warm, calloused, and comforting, with his larger palm engulfing my smaller one, the edges of his jacket sleeve transferring welcomed degrees of body heat to my own in the frigid bus. And suddenly I am realizing that the voice slipping just inches away into my ear is his, is so decidedly at home that I've failed to realize that they were his instructions to be followed and not mine, is so easy and familiar and thick that I wonder what it would be like to listen to every morning, what it would feel like even closer to my the nape of my neck, the curve of my lips, my tongue. If he would breathe my name in the hollow of my mouth, if he would whisper something sweet against my forehead in a groggy, dazed, lovely good morning greeting. I wonder if this brusque, abrasive man could be docile like this for hours on end, if he could bear to synchronize his heartbeat with mine in the deeper hours of the night, and then I think: Could I make this man mine? Could I make this moment last for a lifetime of seconds? If I were to pull him to me right here, right now, would I stop this moment from ever happening again?

The warmth is gone, suddenly, and with it the seconds of desire and curiosity and urge to ask him to murmur something again. My guide tells me that it is only five minutes until.