against the windowpane

The last bus home arrives and she climbs aboard and fumbles in her pockets for her transfer. She apologizes to the few individuals waiting in line behind her, then sags into a seat and for a moment tries to read. The bus stops at several more stops, and her eyes close for a moment, then she nods and starts awake and, sinking further into the hard seat, clutches her bag and her book about herself tightly and shuts her eyes again. Once again she nods. This time she does not start awake, and she continues to sink into the seat. The book slips from her hands.

Her eyes open once again, just before her stop. She looks phenomenally unhappy now, confused, concerned, unsatisfied with the sleep she didn't really intend to take. She rubs at her eyes and runs her hands through her hair and stands up and, when the bus finally stops, gets off and sneaks into the night, head bowed, shoulders hunched. The book finds its way into the hands of a man who never knows anything more about it besides the fact that it was "to Melissa, from Nicholas. With something resembling love."