The Unasked Question, Or, The Bus Route's Glare

The bus was mostly empty.

I like it that way. Plenty

of room for my elbows, my shame.

Then he got on. No name,

no sound, just a presence.

Across the aisle, his essence

seeped into the quiet hum.

And then, his gaze, it came.

Not a look. Not a stare.

But a hold. Like he was there

inside my head, unblinking.

Just watching. Not thinking,

or maybe thinking too much.

My own skin began to itch.

I looked at my shoes. The floor.

The smudged window. And saw more

of his eyes there, reflected back,

two dark smudges, a black

hole in the city's grey.

It ruined the whole day.

Made everything feel off-kilter.

Just his gaze. A slow filter

of discomfort, seeping in.

He didn't move. He didn't begin

to speak. Just watched.

And the day, it was botched.