In his left hand was a journal with glossy pages and shiny black text. Underneath a grey-scale bar graph on the right page was a caption that included the words “joints”, “forces”, and “intervention”. The top header of the page demurely proclaimed its identity as a journal for rehabilitation medicine.

On his left ring finger was a polished pewter ring.

He saw her board the bus. My eyes followed his eyes which followed her body. She was cute: Her brown hair was tied back in a simple ponytail, revealing her silver dangly earrings and the thin silver hoop that pierced through the cartilage near the top of her right ear. A turquoise fleece scarf poked out from her muted orange jacket. Merlot-colored clogs peeked out from her boot-cut jeans. In her left hand was a spiral-bound notebook, its pages a mosaic of Powerpoint slides.

On her right middle finger was a wide silver ring. The fingers of her left hand were unadorned.

A surprised expression crossed his face when she took the empty seat next to him. Her eyes never left the pages of her syllabus; they studied the text and images intently to ignite the electrical impulses traveling between the neurons of her studious brain.

He extended his left arm a bit and continued to look at the pages before him. Without moving his head, his eyes darted to her face before returning to his study of joints and forces.

As the bus bumbled over the potholes and scraped against the curb, he continued to sneak glances at her, the whites of his eyes betraying the movements of his eyeballs. Once, they directed his gaze onto her syllabus and the expression on his face broadcasted his thoughts: What is she reading?

She continued to read, unaware that her neighbor’s retinas were snapping neuronal photographs of her for his private enjoyment.

The bus lurched to a stop. She clutched her notebook to her chest and hoisted her bag onto her shoulder. He tucked his journal underneath his arm and swung his bag over his back. He looked out the opposite window when she looked over her right shoulder to ensure that her bag hadn’t hit anyone. I followed them down the aisle.

Once off of the bus, she went right and he went left. Her gait, though unhurried, was purposeful. Her bag bounced against her back, providing the cadence for her walk.

He looked back at her once—twice—three times—and one last time!—as he continued towards the hospital. He craned his neck farther and farther to the right as his feet insisted on carrying him to the left. He finally resigned himself to entering the building.

And she had no idea.