I saw her at the bus-stop and quickly decided she wasn’t edible,* although she was certainly pretty. I therefore stopped returning her glances, which seemed to upset her.
But when the crowds started boarding the bus, I realized the opportunity to rub up on her from behind, and I seized it. Although the bus wasn’t crowded enough to justify full (dry) penetration, I managed some pleasant, boner-inducing contact.
She was talking to her neighbors in irritated Italian, and out of fear of being cursed out in a foreign language, I didn’t exaggerate the situation.
She kept wincing, which was her way of repenting for occasionally deliberately backing up into my stiff cock. Repenting in front of the various censors/voyeurs around us who kept checking and measuring the space between us.
When she got off she did peek through the corner of her eye, through the window as we pulled away, to see who I was, what I looked like, whether I knew, realized, was still looking, judging, perhaps gloating… And she did respond to my friendly, generous smile with the slightest of Mona Lisa smirks of her own…
Why so much analysis of one anonymous girl’s psyche? For the same reason that Leonardo kept sketching legs’ veins and endless other irrelevancies, which, in the long run, make masterpieces possible.