It was not the looking which caught the attention – men gaze at the unattainable Springtime girls of their youth all the time.
It was the furtive, involuntary tic of looking.
He seemed incapable of helping himself, his gaze and another step slithering forth each time within the second to greedily take in the bits he had missed in the first, second, third, innumerable times of looking.
Funny, he had seemed normal until she sat down.
A good-job-wealthy, living with parents in the ‘burbs sort of girl perhaps, her blonde and confident frame made frail and vulnerable under his surveillance.
A glance up from her novel and oblivion might have guessed at an easy GQ charm, with the obligatory man-bag that of the shabby chic and not the wretched satchel of the desperate in nearly matched socks.
But warn her generally and frighten her of what specifically? A feeling? A mother’s intuition?
Predictably, maybe, another three buses are not going his way – or mine – again. That makes nine in all and the one he might eventually board the same as The Oblivious Young Girl no doubt.
“Hi. I have a daughter your age and this is in no way meant to scare you, but in a moment take heed of that man directly in front of you. Don’t look yet. His possible intentions have not left your side since you sat down. I’m actually at the wrong stop and this might be nothing, but I couldn’t leave without saying something.”
“Not at all. Like I said, I have a daughter your age.”