She didn't look at him. Not today. Not ever. They'd shared the #15 bus every weekday for four years. Reliable as clockwork they glided through the streets together; alone. She with her Wall Street Journal, small frowns forming with the turn of each page. He with his headphones pumping out Led Zeppelin, eyes mostly closed.

Every few minutes he looked over at her, tried to catch her eye. Maybe today was the day. Maybe today she would put down the black and white pages of bad news and, only for a second, gaze at the man in the red jacket. He wore that red jacket every day on the bus. Hot or cold, dry or rainy, the bus was precisely sixty-eight degrees inside and he wore the jacket. And every day she ignored his presence.

He pulled out his watch and looked at the time. 9:15. She left the bus.