Chantal lives in another building near to mine. I often catch her on the same bus going to work in the morning, and sometimes on the trip back in the evening. Because we see each other regularly, we strike up those little conversations about safe topics. You know the kind I’m talking about: the weekend, the price of groceries, maybe a recently seen movie. She doesn’t wear a ring, but I don’t know if she’s single. I take it she’s a business person, maybe accounting.

She’s a good-looking girl; tall and slim and usually with a nice business suit on. She wears her dark, brown hair really short, especially at the sides. Her face is narrow and her cheek-bones are high which accentuates her eyes. Her eyes are beautiful; large and bright blue. But I think it’s her mouth that really knocks me out. It is broad and her lips are quite full and she has one of those drop-dead gorgeous open smiles that show frankness and confidence. The first time she laid that one on me, I almost did drop dead!

Sometimes, if we’ve met on the evening bus, we’ll walk up the street together to my corner. And if we’re talking, she’ll stop until we’ve finished and then say, ‘Have a great evening, Jeff’, putting the emphasis on ‘great’. Then she’ll wander off up the street. I usually watch her out of the corner of my eye. Then I take the elevator and enter my dark apartment. I have a shower and put on a can of stew. I eat alone and listen to the local classical station. It calms me. I love Vivaldi.

I wonder sometimes what it would be like to kiss Chantal’s lips or even just invite her for a coffee, or whatever. But then my brain clicks into gear and I know that wouldn’t work. She’s beautiful and successful. What would she find interesting in a guy like me? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

I wonder what she’s doing tonight.

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His name is Jeff and he lives in the building on the corner of my block. I see him fairly often at the bus in the morning.

He’s a tall guy, but thin. When I see him run across the street to the bus shelter, with those long legs and arms waving about, he almost looks like a puppet. Then he’ll step into the little shelter and say something silly and I have to stop myself from giggling. We talk sometimes and I understand he’s a warehouse manager or something of the sort. And he looks the part, too, with his clean jeans and a big, rough work shirt on. You can tell he’s in good shape because when he picks up his backpack to mount the bus, all the chords stand out across his neck and shoulder and down his forearm; he doesn’t have a big build, just all chords and sinews. I really like his face. He has one of those innocent, big, blue eyes child-like expressions that shows forwardness and happiness. And when he grins at me with that shy, awkward smile, sometimes I don’t know what to do to stop from blushing or starting to giggle. His hands are beautiful; his fingers are long and thin, but strong from the work that he does. The joints are starting to get large from the work as well, but that’s OK. He doesn’t wear a ring on his left hand, but has a silver one on his right hand – probably from a girlfriend.

I wonder what it would be like to invite him over for dinner. Maybe I could make him a stew with lots of meat and potatoes in it. I’d turn off the classical music that I usually listen to and put on some seventies rock which is probably more to his taste. I can see him out at the pub with friends on a Saturday night listening to that kind of music and drinking beer. He would probably be chatting up some big-breasted bar maid and maybe taking her home after to maul each other.

In the evening, if I don’t manage to spot him on the bus, I walk home alone. When we walk up the block together, sometimes I talk to him and stop on his corner. Once he said, ‘Hey Chantal…’, and then he stopped. I thought he was going to ask me out and I felt like my heart was going to jump into my throat. But then he just said, ‘You have a great evening’, and it was sweet because he put the emphasis on ‘great’.

When I get home, my tabi Jeremiah is always there to greet me. He’ll keep talking (meowing) while I steam some vegetables and open a can of fish for him. I usually sauté a fish fillet for myself, and then, as I eat, sometimes Jeremiah will jump into my lap and sit there purring; thankful for the company.

Still, I think it would be nice to have a big puppet-like guy like Jeff in here. We could eat together and talk. We could listen to some music. Maybe he would kiss me at the door as he left going back to his place. Maybe he would stay. Maybe he’s never really noticed me at all.

I wonder what he’s doing tonight.

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This actually came to me from a blog that I read today. I think it is so sad that people are unable to connect and this story, about two wonderful people that are perfect for each other, is the result of that feeling. Just so you know: six months later, Chantal is transferred to her head office in Montreal and never sees Jeff again.