Ah, Bus Girl.
The girl you often see on the bus. You’ve never spoken to her. You don’t know anyone that knows her. You don’t know anything about her, except that you love her.
You hop on the bus home and sit upstairs, bored, and hope it doesn’t start raining before you get home.
Then she gets on.
In all her glory.
She sits upstairs, a few seats ahead of you. You always sit upstairs on the bus! You have so much in common!
She’s wearing her usual purple scarf.
Haven’t see that on her before. Suits her though. Everything suits Bus Girl.
Normal jeans – a girl next door sort of thing, y’know. You wouldn’t want Bus Girl wearing a short skirt or anything. She’s classier than that.
She always wears Converse shoes. Pink ones. They’re cute. Just like her. The cute little Bus Girl that she is.
You can’t see her face properly from where you’re sitting, but thankfully, as you look out the window, there’s a great shot of her in the reflection. Jackpot. Now you can pretend to be looking out the window. When really you’re pining.
She has earphones in. I bet she listens to the same music as you. You could go to gigs together. The kind of gigs you want to go to, but nobody else really knows the band, and you don’t fancy going alone.
She’d definitely knows some bands that you don’t though. And vice versa. So then you could make each other compilation CDs and everything.
She takes out a book and starts reading. She’s already half way through. She uses a bookmark to keep track of where she is in the book, instead of bending the pages like some people do. You don’t like bending the pages either! Made for each other.
Just the one little sneeze.
My god that’s the cutest sneeze you ever did hear.
You’d marry that sneeze in a heartbeat.
She takes out her phone and sends a text.
Too far away to see what it said. Or if there were kisses at the end.
What if it was to her boyfriend?
There could be literally nothing worse in the history of the world than Bus Girl having a boyfriend.
She doesn’t have a boyfriend.
Bus Girl wouldn’t do that to you.
The text was to one of her parents. She’s just letting them know that she’ll be home for dinner soon.
She definitely doesn’t have a boyfriend.
She looks after her parents. And her little brother. She definitely has a little brother.
You could teach the little brother football skills and she’d watch and laugh and be impressed with your skills. Afterwards she’d tell you how adorable you were when you playing with the little brother.
Wonder if you should get the little brother a birthday present? She’d be really impressed if you did. And then him and the parents would really be on your side.
The mother would like you anyway, you’re polite and can eat anything she cooks for you so that’s grand. The father would be a bit surly but you’d win him over by knowing about football and cracking a couple of jokes. If he drinks Guinness then simply chat about places that do a good pint, and you’re sorted.
She’s taking out her phone again.
She reads it and puts it back in.
And there it is.
Clarification that she was just texting home.
Wonder if she’d make you change your Facebook status to “In A Relationship with Bus Girl”.
Wouldn’t really fancy that.
But if she insists.
Bet she does something cool in college.
Then she crosses her legs.
A real lady.
You wish you could see what she’s reading. Maybe it’s Catcher In The Rye – just like you’ve read. More likely though, it’s one of those books you wish you had read, but just have never gotten around to reading. She’s cool like that. Might have to brush up on your reading.
Maybe she’ll love your blog though.
She’ll find it really funny and think you’re really funny and girls love funny guys so therefore she loves you.
Shit, maybe you’re not ready for love.
What is love?
Right. You know she gets off at the same stop as you. She walks in the opposite direction, but still.
Except that time when she got off way before the stop. Wonder what that was about.
Say something to her. Crack a joke or something.
Then again, you’d probably make an idiot of yourself.
Don’t say anything to her, whatever you do, you massive fool.
God loves a trier though. And fortune favours the brave. And she’s not going to fall into your lap.
Come on, say something to her. It’ll be like the films.
Then in years to come you can make jokes about Dublin Bus bringing you together.
You both head downstairs as you near your stop.
You allow her to get off before you, with a “Ladies first” and a smile. She thanks you. And smiles.
After you get off she stops you and says “Is that The Smiths?”
You took out the earphones to thank the driver (and try to flirt with Bus Girl) but left the music playing rather loudly. Clear for all to hear. And yes, you were listening to The Smiths.
You confirm that she’s correct. She gets quite animated and begins chatting away freely to you about how much she loves them.
And then you take her phone number.
You both went downstairs on the bus.
You took out an earphone and tried to say a suave “Ladies first”, but you hadn’t spoken for ages, and your throat had gone all funny and needed to be cleared.
So your charming “Ladies first” turned into a guttural “ladglarpi”. She looked at you with disinterested confusion just as the song on your iPod changed to some dogshit song by The Kooks.
She got off the bus and leapt into the arms of her troglodyte, mouth-breathing, illiterate, nose-picking boyfriend. He’s wearing a t-shirt that says “If found please return to pub” and there’s a ketchup stain on it. And on his tracksuit bottoms.
Ah, Bus Girl – the dozy fucking cunt.
Fine. They can go home and watch Jeremy Kyle together for the rest of their lives, feeding their idiot children icepops for dinner and having unloving, hairy sex, that gets interrupted with his growl of “Shite, I need a piss”.
I bet she was listening to some dance music shite.
And reading Ross O’Carroll Kelly.
And who the fuck wears pink Converse?
What is she, twelve?
Grow up you silly bint.
So you walk home and listen to this song and think about that girl that served you in the shop earlier.
Ah, Shop Girl.
You’re so much better than Bus Girl.