Murphy’s Law.

It figures the one day I’d be in public writing about my crush, that she would show up.

I should clarify. I’m a writer. I write cute fairytales. Occasionally ty and usually based on strangers I ogle in daily life. Cute strangers. Hot strangers. Intriguing strangers.

I have a long commute to and from work every day and I’ve found that nothing keeps me from dozing off except writing. I’ll fall asleep while reading a book. I’ll nod off if I just watch the scenery roll by, out the bus window. But put a pen and paper in my idle hands and I’ll stay awake as long as the ideas flow.

Some would call me quirky because I won’t board a bus unless there are single seats available. Not that I’m xenophobic or anything, but sitting between talkative, sweaty, annoying travelers means no elbow room when I write. I’ve tried it. Fingers, hands and eventually arms lock and cramp. No fun at all.

Normally I’d wait for the next bus if the one I’m lined up for is full. But today I was tired from work, hungry and had already let two buses pass. I finally boarded an irritatingly loud and crowded vehicle and planted myself in front of the most convenient pole to magically balance myself against while gripping my pen and paper for dear life.

I really hated that people could probably read my words as they materialized onto the page. I was short, and almost all the nearby passengers were taller than me. I was sure this gave them the perfect vantage point to snoop on my cute fluffy ty fiction. Nevertheless, a writer shall write.

I scribbled as neatly as possible, as the bus jerked through its numerous stops and turns. It’s true – as I was saying, I was currently writing about my crush. She worked in the office next to mine and I only knew her name because I once overheard my boss address her when he passed her in the hall.

I remembered her name because it was weird. Who would name their child Milk? Yes, M-i-l-k like the kind that we drink. But this tall, cool beverage was more like a tall, dark and handsome. Gosh, who cared that she had a bizarre name – she was gorgeous in all her lanky, boyish splendor. Though she was slim, she had large hands, chubby cheeks and pouty lips. Yes, I knew this because I watched her intently any opportunity the heavens blessed me with.

I passed her in hallways and sometimes in the employee bathroom, but all we ever exchanged were rushed hellos or a nod here or there. So into my fiction she crept. Because I was starving by now, I fantasized about scrumptious treats that might go well with a liter of milk. I had a soft spot for sweets. Cakes, pies, muffins, cookies, fudge, doughnuts, pudding, and even candied fruit – the kind with practically no more nutrients remaining after being cooked and caramelized in drippy crystallized sugar.

Milk’s round cheeks just pleaded to be paired with sweetness. So I wrote her into a little food fantasy. I imagined we were sitting in a truck stop on a break from some wild road trip. She was so adorable as she chomped down on a powdered-sugar doughnut. The dots of white rimmed her plump lips and gave her a bit of a mustache. She smiled at me like a chipmunk storing a year’s worth of acorns in her hungry face.

Inwardly, I sighed as I developed my tantalizing little plot. Just then, the bus driver slammed the brakes a bit harder than necessary and I felt myself lose my footing. Many of the standing travelers were jostled and tossed and this is another reason I always board a bus with vacant seats.

Clutching my pen and paper, I wobbled backwards. In a way, I was thankful for the pair of strong hands that steadied me from behind. But then I immediately felt self-conscious when more eyes were potentially exposed to my very personal fluff-fiction.

Did I mention I hate being a sardine in a bus?

The owner of the hands that halted my fall uttered a polite, “Are you okay?”

I turned to face my co-passenger with a casual nod. My casualness slowly transformed into nervousness as the face belonging to the same body as those great hands swam into focus.

Holy hell. Of all places to run into my crush. Why Milk, why? I should have taken one of the other buses; I really should have.

I ended my stupid nodding with a small, “Uh...yeah?” I said it like it was a question. Like I wasn’t sure or something. Egad, I was such a spazz. This was so awkward. But it got worse.

While I weighed appropriate reactions for their potential validity, I noticed her eyes peering at my silly words on my silly paper. It seemed tall, dark and handsome was also a nosy neighbor.

“Whatchya writing?” she asked. And it was too late to put down my stupid hand that held the stupid paper. So I clutched the pages so hard the ink had probably imprinted itself onto my fingers with the pressure and humidity induced by my own nerves.

Before I could answer the rather simple question, Milk was already reading over my shoulder.

“...and Milk stuffed her adorable face with a third sumptuous doughnut – this time, a chocolate-glazed.” Milk read aloud. It was horrible that she read it out loud, but a tad less horrible that she’d kept her voice low among the thrum of the other travelers.

And this is where I died. Or I should have died. I should have been propelled through the window when the driver had slammed down on his brakes. I should have been a splattered mess all over that annoying drooling granny, as well as the big oaf who selfishly took up two seats. I should have not been meant to hear the chuckle escaping from those pink, pulpy lips attached to those smiling chipmunk-cheeks.

The bus halted to let a few people out at their stop, and when the vehicle sprung back into motion, Milk said, “Did you know there’s a doughnut shop at the next stop?”

Mortified, I shook my head. But not all days end on a bad note. This lovely chuckling chipmunk announced, “I’m kinda hungry,” and then continued, “Would you accompany me for a snack?”

She was kidding. She must have been kidding? And yet, she wasn’t. She pushed the red stop requested button and asked, “What’s your favorite flavor?”

Like the idiot I am, I stammered, “M-Milk.”

She laughed, baring straight teeth as white as her namesake, and shared, “Mine’s chocolate-glazed.”