Miss Dover High

As I boarded the Lebanon bus to visit an old friend, I noticed an
exceptionally beautiful young lady seated ahead, dressed in the most
exquisite white blouse and a tantalizingly long gray wraparound skirt,
tucked in along the aisle side.  I sat down in the seat across from
her, as any self-respecting young gentleman would.

There was a young man, perhaps my age, sitting diagonally two seats in
front of me.  I didn't like him.  He had a long red pony-tail and the
kind of scraggly beard that only looks good when viewed in a mirror
and midway through the trip he started reading a book named "The Art
of Sexual Ecstasy" really conspicuously.  When he was in high school,
he knew thousands of facts about the persecution of industrial hemp,
even though it was obvious to everyone that he was only interested
because he obsessively smoked marijuana to forget how pathetic his
life was.  When he thought a girl showed the slightest interest in
him, he would ditch his friends in half a second, then, later,
complain to them loudly about what a bitch she was when it turned out
she was only interested in getting a better grade in chemistry.  (I
have no evidence about the girl bit--or the hemp bit--and I'm not sure
if his beard ever looks good, but I have no contrary evidence either.)

I had various misadventures: watching my crush sleep cutely, falling
asleep with my head in the aisle to make conversation more natural,
waking to find Mr. Ecstasy had moved back a seat and was staring at my
crush even more shamelessly than I had, sleeping him back into his
original seat.  Finally I raised the courage to speak with her.

"Excuse me, do you know how far to Lebanon?"

"Sorry, no.  Can you tell me what time it is?"  She had one of those
_- climbing voices.

"Ten past eight."
               
"Thanks."  _- 

She went to the bathroom, he stared at me angrily, and I stayed in the
aisle seat.  But when she sat back down it was by the window and I
couldn't bring myself to start up another conversation.  She didn't
like me, anyway.  

We arrived at Lebanon and I gathered my stuff, the only one on the
whole bus leaving.  She asked disappointedly, "You're getting off
here?"

"No, you silly, I'm going skiing with you," I didn't say.  "We'll stay
up late nights drinking cocoa, playing scrabble, and making love so
passionately the resort will need to order an entire new set of
bedroom furniture."

"But I'm not going skiing!  I'm going to Montreal to be lonely amidst
the street cafes and French accents," she didn't say back.

"This is my stop," I said and rushed out to hug my friend.

Now, and at the time, I felt really stupid for caring.  For all I
know, the disappointment I heard as I left the bus was my own.  For
all I know, she's a sophomore at Dover High School and a bitch as
well.  But still, I'm kicking myself for saying nothing.