Enticing brown hair and light green eyes . . . I remember how he caught my attention the first time I saw him on the bus. I see him almost everyday now. I take this bus to school just so I can see this beautiful boy each morning.

By the softness and simplicity of his features I'd say he's just slightly younger than me. There's something about a boy's body at that age, something that mesmerizes me. Beyond the sterile innocence of childhood but not yet tainted by the corrupting assurance of adulthood, like the point in the St. Lawrence River where it turns from fresh to salt water.

I remember when I was that age, which was not really that long ago, but which also, somehow, seems like forever. I never realised what potency I held at that age. I wonder if he does? Could he possibly know how each simple feature of his body, his voice, his walk, makes me stir inside with a longing to reach out and touch him, to hear him, to watch him, and to be with him? No . . . of course not. He must be totally oblivious to this incredible beauty, just like all the others his age.

Sitting across from me alone on the bus, he stares out the window, turning his head occasionally to look my way. Does he know what I'm thinking?

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