Standing room only, and I am crammed in opposite you. It's funny that the first thing I notice about you is that you're reading, and the fact that you are gorgeous is the second. I sneak a glance at the spine of your novel ‒ it's something foreign, and I wonder if you are foreign, with your hispanic good looks, or whether ‒ better yet ‒ you are merely intellectual enough to be reading literature in another language. I continue reading, but I notice you checking out my book cover too. I smile to myself and read on; I can't catch your eye; I know that in five minutes you will get off at your station and I will never see you again ‒ there's no point striking up a conversation and getting to know one another and finding out that we are soul mates and expecting to spend the rest of our lives together in Tuscany... it doesn't work like that. At least, not as long as I keep reading my book.
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