The cute oriental girl by my side grimaces and mumbles some inaudible complaint to herself as the bus makes it to the exit out of the expressway and takes the C-shaped access down the overpass towards the main avenue below and straight into an evening sea of red break lights, rolling on until the whole world is called to a halt, gridlocked in rush-hour traffic.
But look at this girl, willya? She’s something else entirely.

Daily usage of public transportation is above all things an issue of faith: Faith there’s enough sitting room available, faith the car will not break down halfway across town, faith there aren’t too many babies or old ladies demanding your seat and generally slowing down all operations, faith you won’t get mugged, faith the public transportation corridors are mostly unclogged, and so on and so on and so on. But as opposed to faith you have hell, and hell as one saying goes, lies in the angles.
And I’m looking for an angle myself.
See, I have been looking for an angle on this specific girl for ages, ever since I noticed we pretty much end up sharing the same route and bus lines. Whenever there’s a synchronization of ethereal luck wham!, she’s there in the bus and by now it’s pretty obvious to her I’ve been wolfing her down with my eyes, mostly at her ass because that’s one pretty little ass in tight black cotton pants.

Japanese girls drive me crazy. That’s a fact. I think my greatest frustration in life at age 27 is that I’ve never, ever gone to bed with an asian-looking woman. So I keep looking for those angles.
This one, see, is of medium height and very slim, but I figure her to be of mixed heritage, because her jaw line isn’t really roundish but her eyes are. She’s got thick, wavy black hair cascading just above the shoulders and sort of held up high on her head, not really unlike those girls in those mid-1980s Japanese action series for children on TV that I’d basically fed myself on when I was a kid. The very cradle of adult f*tishism…

Traffic stops and I turn another page on this book in my hands and pretend to be really interested in it, trying not to look like some psych* or something to her. She fidgets on her seat, then starts changing the tracks on her iPod as if searching for the one secret tune that will bring back motion to the planet.
The bus begins cutting through the jammed traffic, going home, very slowly at first, in baby-steps, until we begin to move on, moving on with our lives, moving on with ourselves as the world turns and shifts from the extraordinary to the mundane, from the hallowed to the profane, as the day ends and is caught in the unflappable slipstream of tomorrow riding up the slope just ahead, overhead, beyond our touch and beyond all reach, framed by the eternity of the sea of the red break lights.