At Least They're Committed

He looks a lot like Giles from Buffy the Vampire Slayer, so in my head that’s what I call him. He rides the same bus I do and once when I was walking back from the Denver Capitol I saw him walking into a building that was one block southwest of my own. Wearing tans and a signature Herbert Johnson Indy hat, he’s distinguished and looks British even though the couple of times I’ve heard him speak he had no accent. Lately he’s taken the hat off when I’ve gotten on the bus, showing off a thick crop of dark-blond hair. I’m not sure whether that’s for my benefit or not. He gets off at my stop and even when he sits closer to the exit he waits until I pass to get up and leave the bus. Walking the third of a mile to my office, he’s often nearby: He wants to strike up a conversation, methinks, but I usually have my earphones in blasting my FooFighters, Stones, STP or Backstreet Boys in attempt to psych myself up for the day ahead. I tell myself not to feel bad for not further acknowledging his glances nor behaving in a more welcoming fashion. I do smile broadly and say “Thank you” when he lets me off the bus first, does that count? No matter. I’m sure he’s simply delightful and charming but I don’t need to find out.

It’s not his fault. Even if he has noticed the wedding ring, it isn’t his fault. Whatever I am, that’s part of it. I’m violet. It’s that simple. I don’t mean to, I don’t mean to.