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Heaven boarded the bus on Friday morning, bringing with her a chill of late November air and a rush of autumn leaves. Daughters and sons of oak and eucalyptus and birch swirled around her in a riot of color as she paid her fare. She was exquisite. She had a face full of dark eyes and exotic cheekbones, and soft rounded lips that cast a shadow on her chin, but it was her hair that captured my attention. It was as black as the earth, and it glinted like glass in the sunlight, a shiny healthy mass of thick strands pulled back into a high ponytail. I wanted to touch her. When she sat in front of me, I could smell her, a winter-summer smell of mint and lemon.

I could feel my nipples hardening against the fabric of my long leather jacket, and I zipped it closed. I could see the sweet line of her cheek connecting to her ear. I traced the graceful curve of her shoulder with my eyes. She gazed dead ahead, glancing neither to the left nor the right, settling herself into the stupor of bus travel. I could see her pulse beating against the skin of her neck, saw the little hairs that traveled down her neck and under her collar. I shivered from something other than the cold.

I pulled my hands and arms in toward my body, snaking them out of my sleeves and close to my own heat. My empty sleeves deflated and sat like sad amputated arm ghosts beside me. I was covered from neck to shin in black leather coat, a woman hugging herself against the cold.

...

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