The way she is sitting in front of me, her head sitting softly against the bus window, seems so blissful. Her hair, shiny and brushed back, caresses the glass, up and down, as we move over the bumps of the road. I want to lean forward and touch it. It looks like it would be static to my touch at first but then gentle and easy. We turn a corner and the sun lights up each strand of blonde hair. As we turn again, she moves back into the shade and I think about moving so I can see her face.