Good Morning, Good Morning

Popplewell swings like a pendulum, to counter the movement of the bus. Gripping the overhead strap in one hand, his open book in the other. He reads, peeping over the dark, round rimmed spectacles, perched at the end of his nose, in defiance of the need for bifocals. The story takes him away from the humdrum existence, that is his inconsequential life. His concentration breaks, to this mornings breakfast, which he dutifully prepared and served in bed, to Bertha and Regina, his wife and solitary issue, respectively. It displeased more than usual this morning. Earning him vitriolic abuse for spoiling the start of their day.

He would have to check the toaster, when he returned from work. Its unpredictable produce, anything from light to dark brown, provoking any reaction from grudging acceptance to deep displeasure. A stray hair from his normally neatly trimmed moustache, invokes a minor irritation in his nostril causing him to twitch his nose and upper lip. He had always been a disappointment to his wife and daughter, and they never wasted an opportunity to inform him.

The bus stops and at this part of town more people join than leave, though it is standing room only. Perfume surrounds him, of such sweet light fragrance, it causes him to drift away from his story, once again. It reminds him of spring, many years ago, running in vast open fields. Carefree, pleasant days and laughter.

His eyes are drawn, through the forest of pensile sleeved arms, to the source of the heady aroma. Black curls dance on her shoulders, framing her pale skin. The neatly shaped eyebrows like thin black darts above her deep brown eyes. Lashes that seem to sweep from floor to ceiling, as her eyes sparkle, lit by the intermittent rays of the morning sun. Her eyeliner black against the delicate grey-blue, eye shadow.

She disappears momentarily, bending to attend to something out of sight. As people shuffle, Popplewell himself adjusts his position to get a better view of her. He pokes his spectacles back up the bridge of his nose with a finger, to stop him having to tilt his head, to see clearly . More is revealed as a man, ex-military type by his gate and manners, in camel coloured overcoat and fog hat, moves to the front of the platform. Her short blue denim jacket covers a white cotton T-shirt, barely suitable for the unpredictable autumnal weather. Though disturbed he resumes the story.

A drab man with acne scars and bad breath excuses himself to get passed, jolting Popplewell once again from his reading.

Another day of claims and policies ahead at the office. The office. The young staff think him 'wise but gloomy' and he is somewhat of a confidante. The older ones talk about him behind his back, usually in fun but they all ask for his sage advice. They tell him of their loves and likes; failures and failings; heartaches and heart attacks. He responds with the cynical wisdom gleaned from years of patient observation, of misery and underachievement. His own.

The passage to the beauty is clearer. Her ensemble is completed by a neatly ironed, yellow cotton skirt with paisley and balloon patterns of variegated colours, over white nylon stockings or tights and black leather, knee length boots. Her necklaces and bracelets of which there are several, are of copper coloured, non-precious metal. He looks up from her slender neck, festooned with her dark curls.

Her eyes engage his. He is at once, hypnotised by her large rich chocolate irises. Her open smile breaks out, revealing what else but well maintained teeth. He tries to mirror her smile but cannot, being caught unawares. She slowly looks away and he reluctantly returns to his book. The ice cold monotony of his day, melted by her unsolicited, generous warmth.

He sees her holding a half-full bottle of water - or is it half empty (I suppose it depends how optimistic you are and Popplewell now feels exceedingly so), which she occasionally lifts to her tender lips. The top cushioned pad looks swollen within a sculpted, bow shaped outline. Her lower lip like a pink, succulent, grapefruit segment. She suckles as if at a teat. Her indented cheeks emphasising her delicate bone structure.

The bus stops and passengers become pedestrians; pedestrians-passengers. They shuffle along the aisle, gripping whatever bars or straps are available. Endeavouring to find some stability, as the bus pulls away. Trying to avoid contact with others, though this isn't always possible. Occasionally there will be mild social intercourse, which inevitably returns to self-absorption and indifference.

He glances across to where he can still see her, clutching the handle of her bag. He wonders what is in the bag. What knowledge is being carried on her back, day-in day-out. What words printed or electronic in her books, PDA or ipod. What knowledge will she need except the knowledge of how her beauty affects everyone around her and that she has already learned.

She reads the route sign once again, self-consciously taking an opportunity to glance askance. Her pale translucent skin, juxtaposed her raven hair. Popplewell looks away in case he is caught over-staring, over-interested, back to his book. By now his book is merely a prop, a bolthole to evade discovery.

His peripheral vision sees the legs of the other passengers mainly men milling around the young vision. They hold newspapers or mobile phones, rocking casually, deceitfully, as if paying no attention. Popplewell knows they're fooling nobody with their non-threatening display and feeble attempts to capture her attention. To receive the same acknowledgement only he himself has yet received.

Suddenly rain lashes at the large window, a dark cloud covering this part of town. The internal lights come on, possibly some automatic sensor or drivers timely intervention. He hopes she has an umbrella so her hair, won't get sodden and lose its spring; though the thought of her cotton T-shirt wet, with brown nipples protruding from her plump breasts, was appealing.

The girl flicks her head back casually, surveying the encroaching male pack, jockeying for her attention. Her face looks blank, thoughts seemingly elsewhere, no smile proffered to these; a built in reflex, learned through self-awareness. She uncrosses then re-crosses her legs, switching aspect. This action generates the gentle swishing sound of nylon on nylon, and electricity through Popplewell. Evoking thoughts of fumblings and fondlings in the past.

The next stop again releases people, struggling to get through the throng. Thankfully she remains seated, the one pleasant aspect of the infant day. Wet people, stand and drip on the platform, steam lifting from their coats. Caught in the intermittent showers. The sun's rays appear as quickly as they left, the cloud cover broken, seeking her out. She looks down occupying her eyes with trivia. A loose thread from her skirt. A speck of dust on her leather boots.

The bus hits the outskirts of the commercial district and enters the fierce competition for space with rush-hour traffic. Buildings rise, the suns rays obscured, once again. Tops of heads scurry by en-route to busy jobs. The bus slows and she stands, her skirt gathered and creased, such beauty so undeserving of any mar. Popplewell's heart sinks at the sight of her standing to leave; though momentarily buoyed, seeing her in full view.

An overweight lady, not unlike his wife, struggles forward from her seat to propel herself upright. Her pretty face distorted by layers of unnecessary subcutaneous fat. Huffing in discomfort but smiling through the pain and humiliation. The girl smiles back in empathic acknowledgement; though never having need to shuffle on her bottom, since she was a baby. When the obese woman moves to the door, the girl sits back down, much to Popplewell's relief and heavenly gratitude.

At this stop the bus has started to empty enough for Popplewell to have a less encumbered view of her. The pack has dispersed. She tucks her skirt under her thigh, as a lean man sits beside her, attempting to ingratiate himself with his oleaginous smile. He looks eagerly; probing her with his eyes, demanding response. Lust oozing out of his pores or was it sweat. She demurely returns his smile but quickly turns away. Detached. Her eyes betray no affection there.

Whilst he sits beside her, she knowingly keeps her head pointing away from him. He shuffles and wriggles attempting to draw her attention but she is not diverted. He casually lays back in the seat. His arm stretches along her backrest, as if by accident. He places his hand, knuckle to his nose, revealing a wedding ring, while she is purposefully distracted elsewhere. He slyly undresses her, with his eyes. Wantonly looking her up and down. This continues for some time, much to Popplewell's annoyance, that she could be abused in such a way and by a married man.

The bus stutters through the traffic as Popplewell quietly fumes.

At the next stop the man stands to disembark. For this she turns her face and fashions a polite smile with her mouth but not her eyes. Almost with relief.

A good looking young man, smartly dressed, in grey double breasted suit, takes up a position in front of her. He stands legs crossed at the ankles, resting against the back of an occupied seat, looking towards the ceiling. He is a 'peacock', decides Popplewell. He has an arrogant air about him. His stance reveals all.

She looks up from her feet. Something captures her attention at waist height on the recumbent male. She flushes slightly and looks about herself to ensure she's not being observed, but missing Popplewel's surreptitious gaze. With as much discretion as possible, she glances back to the item of interest.

Popplewell is desperate to see what has consumed her attention. He moves to the now vacant strap opposite, shuffling his briefcase with his feet. He resumes a position hanging from the ceiling and pretends a return to his book. As Popplewell moves she nonchalantly looks away from the subject of her curiosity. When sure it is 'safe' to do so, she resumes her intermittent surveillance, cautiously. Now being on her side of the bus, Popplewell is able to see what is the object of her frequent, furtive glances.

The brazen 'peacock' is standing, a jacket flap held open by his arm, hand in trouser pocket. His grey trousers display an ample lump, of what can only be his genitals or a strategically placed handkerchief. The action of crossing his legs has only caused it to be accentuated. Though thrusting this protuberance in her face, he never once looks below his nose, at the fascination he has caused in this innocent creature.

She once again switches legs and as she does so, flicks the hem of her skirt with her hands, revealing momentarily to Popplewell alone, a white patterned stocking top. His tender feelings towards her fill his body. She begins rocking her crossed legs, the leather spiked heels bobbing up and down slowly, deliberately. Popplewell feels a long forgotten excitement in the pit of his stomach, each time he observes her.

The baritone thrum rises to tenor as the driver moves through the gears and traffic, picking up speed.

Popplewell glances at the bobbing leg, as it moves to her inner rhythm, strangely delighted yet sad at being an impotent witness. She is sat on both her hands raising and lowering her head, to an internal tune. Her hair falling forward covers her eyes, as she looks at the floor; revealed again as she looks up and around, inevitably lingering for a snatched instant on the 'peacock's' trouser front. Popplewell cannot fathom why the 'peacock' never lowers his haughty head, to such a willing admirer, of his obviously deliberate display.

The baritone returns as the engine slides down the scale, decelerating to Popplewell's bus stop.

Popplewell places his book in his battered brown leather briefcase.

She stands up and turns with one last lingering look at the 'peacock's display; breaking her concentration. The bus brakes abruptly and she is propelled forward, to be caught by Popplewell. His hand drops from the strap, and catches her just below her breast, spanning half her rib cage. Her perfume engulfs him. She moves and momentarily he feels through the cotton shirt, to the firm, satin covered orb, beneath. His thumb caresses the hardened nub at the apex.

She smiles and he senses a sweet, peppermint breeze as her slightly moist lips, dampen his cheek.

"Thanks." She whispers.

He feels joy flood through his body, making him giddy. Did she linger a second too long?

She is gone into the bustle of the day.

Shell-shocked and smiling asininely Popplewell falls back against the luggage rack, her lingering perfume , on his fingers, the only proof, he touched her.

The 'peacock' approaches, a genuinely concerned look on his face, his arms outstretched.

"Excuse me." His deep voice, perhaps a product of his generous genitalia or result of a cold for which the handkerchief was pocketed. "Are you alright?".

He's so obviously gay and actually pleasant.

Popplewell smiles and accepts his arm.

How could he have misjudged him so?

This morning he had been lifted above the stagnant pool he called life and shown a brighter place.

"Never better, my friend. Never better."