Brief Encounter (Valentines day post)

She is waiting at the bus stop in the dark. There isn't much space on the pavement, and her bus isn't coming any time soon. To avoid looking jostled and uncomfortable, she gets out a packet of cigarettes, lights one, brings her arm down by her side and looks up and around, in a broad motion, as she exhales.

He is walking down the street, not bad looking. She is used to catching fleeting glances and then pretending she hasn't felt a spark of attraction. He notices her - she's sure of it, and moves the trajectory of his walk almost imperceptibly closer.

Here he is, just two steps away, she doesn't move or look at him directly, but her cigarette holding hand flexes. His feet stop, a foot away from hers. Now he's talking:

"Do you have a light?"
"Oh yeah, of course. Hold on."

She fumbles with the lighter, the wind seems to have picked up and she can't make it strike. He bends his head inwards and down, until it's nearly touching her own. She can smell his leather jacket and something else, a musky cinnamon. The flame lights, briefly. It's long enough for the papery end of his cigarette to flare and glow.

He murmurs his thanks and moves away. Walking down the road he hunches his shoulders and picks up speed as he smokes.

She takes a drag of her own - half finished and tainted with cold, it's no longer satisfying. She looks to see if her bus is coming and then, drawn to the distanced figure, turns her head briefly the other way. Once, then twice, she looks. He does not turn back.