Dear Bus Boyfriend (can I call you BB, babe?),
Today is our anniversary. I’ll forgive you for forgetting it, if only because you have no idea who I am. Just so we don’t have this awkward exchange on our next anniversary, let me jog your memory: I’m the frizzy-haired brunette who gets on the bus a few stops after you in the morning. The one who so carefully makes sure you avoid her longing gaze. Ringing any bells?
The fact of the matter is, Bus Boyfriend, like it or not, we’ve been seeing each other for five months now. And it’s been friggin’ magical.
A quick compendium of everything I know about you: Your hair is too long, even when it’s just been cut. The books you read are pedestrian at best, but it warms my heart how lost you get in those tacky Sexy Vampire Murder Mysteries. You wear nice clothes, but sloppily. You have the kind of face that tells me you wouldn’t kick a puppy – not even if the puppy kind of had it coming.
Over the months I’ve thought about trying to get to know more about you. Maybe even by talking to you, face to face. But what more could I possibly want to know?
Nonetheless, I almost crossed the line the other day. The only available seat that morning was next to you, so I sat there, quivering with nerves. Two stops before you left for work, I turned to ask you about the book you were reading. But I’d woken late that day, with no time to wash my hair, and a girl likes to look her best for the imaginary men in her life.
Besides, what could I possibly say to you? “You don’t know me, but I’ve been watching you?” Ha. Maybe if I were one of those Sexy Vampire Damsels. But I’m just me. And just-me prefers to leave you cast as Adorable Bus Boyfriend, instead of letting you relegate yourself to the role of Kind Rejecter of Advances or, worse, Pitying On-Looker.
Occasionally, to torment myself, I cobble together clues to figure out whether there is some non-imaginary girl in your life. One day you get off the bus at precisely the right stop to pick up a frothy little something for dessert; two days later, you stop in front of the big liquor store in the seedy neighborhood where I live. What can it mean, Bus Boyfriend? Champagne dinners a deux? Binge-pastries over lonely six-packs?
The other twenty-three and a half hours of your day are a mystery to me. But for now, the daily half-hour we share – away from home, then back; together, but not – is enough.
So happy anniversary, Bus Boyfriend, even if you don’t have the day marked. I only hope you are as wonderful in your real life as you are, imaginary, in mine.
“Love Letter” Artist Unknown