Please don’t sit next to me

Seated on the bus today on my way to work reading my book – and she sits next to me. She – the pretty sweet looking thing in her dainty summer dress and low heel shoes. I hate it when that happens. Because – I know – I won’t be able to – concentrate on my book!

It drives me crazy every morning. I prefer it when a man sits next to me, cos I’m not gay, so it doesn’t interfere with my reading. I love it if it’s an older woman, or one I don’t find attractive – then its fine because then I can concentrate on my book cos my heart ain’t throbbing! The funny thing is, that I consider myself to be – how can I say this without sounding obscenely arrogant – I consider myself to have self-understanding and self-control. Yet, and even yet – with such a massive brain resting above my eyes – I still, find myself, loosing concentration, when she sits next to me.

How pathetic is that? What did she do to deserve my attention? Nothing. She did absolutely naaaaating. She didn’t have to say anything clever or profound or funny. She didn’t have to take out an interesting book to read. As far as I know she could be as thick as a door knob! Yet – my brain – my primitive reptilian brain, couldn’t help, but take notice of her. Millions of years of evolutionary programming embedded in my brain – that I can’t control!

There are times on the bus when I put my bag next to the empty seat. To stop people from sitting next to me. Especially to stop pretty girls from sitting next to me.

It happens like this. The bus is almost full. There are few empty seats, one of them is the seat next to me. She gets on the bus at the bus stop, I peer up from my book, see her swaying summer dress, and her rosy cheeks and her hair, and she’s walking towards me and I’m thinking “Oh God! Please no”. And she looks at me, and there is a hint of a smile – a sort of message, that she has seen the empty seat and its hers, and my heart beats so fast, I am sweating, my palms are sticky and they stick to the pages in my book and blur the ink. All this time I am hoping she won’t do it. I am praying, that there is an empty seat behind me and that she will sit there instead. She moves towards me in super-fi slow motion. Her golden tanned legs (Oh God), her hips swaying from side to side (Oh Mother of God have mercy), her dress cutting a swoosh in the fresh morning air (Oh Pope John Paul II).

I look up at her, look for a brief instant, into her eyes.

In the mean time she is observing me also. Her subconscious brain grinding, calculating, trying to work out, if I am safe to sit next to. Programs of body language built in over millions of years in her brain analyse my body language, my appearance, judging, discriminating, pulling me apart and back together again. Programs to allow her to judge me in an instant: am I safe to sit next to? How am I dressed? Am I a psychopath? Am I friendly? Will I bite her neck?

She has seen everything she needs to see in a few seconds. She stands beside me. I am still staring at the words in my book – pleading, begging, hoping that she won’t sit next to me.

She slows down. She turns. She smiles. I catch a glint of her perfect white teeth and those cherry lips. I don’t even know her. We’ve barely met. I’m in love with her already. And its only been 10 seconds. She parks her sweet little bum on the empty seat next to me. I feel my seat slightly depress from her weight. She brushes her hand against my elbow (by mistake. Not deliberately) and I almost have a fit. I look out of the window trying to remove her from my world – but see her reflection in the window.

She is gorgeous.

This is terrible,

This is just bad luck.

It’s a total disaster.

I am done. I can’t read no more. I have given up. I proceed to spend the rest of the journey staring at the fat bald man sitting ahead of me to the right. I am quietly seething in anger. Wondering, why couldn’t the fat bald man have sat next to me instead of her?

Some days – life can be a real bitch…

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