For a short man, Benny was relatively handsome.
Did I mention that he's short?
Okay, so it's not entirely his fault that genetics rolled him snake eyes in the height department. But some guys, they act short. Like they haven't quite grown up, or they need to continuously prove that their feet will actually touch the floor when they sit on the back seat of a bus by slouching.
I mean, it's damned obvious Benny. Truly. Sit up straighter, your ego will be all the wholer for it.
Anyway, the last time I saw the guy on the number seventeen bus, I decided to flirt with him. I only get on for about six stops, so I figured if he got a little too interested then I could bail and walk the rest of the way.
He was pleasant. And when he smiled, yeah, I think I saw a little bit of handsomeness hiding somewhere under the poorly fitting clothes and the bad (I mean awful) moustache. I almost called him on the face hair, but chose for the subtle approach by dropping a Sonny and Cher comment.
I don't think he understood the reference. I mean, the guy's balding, he sure looks old enough to remember S&C, but who knows? Maybe he did grow up on the moon, or in some isolated hamlet in the north.
Using some of my lesser material, like the hair curling and the leg crossing, I had his eyes stuck to me like dried eggs on a fork. Like his height, his gaze came up short, resting more on my cleavage than on my eyes, but what guy doesn't. This current trend in push-up, padded, multi-colored bras has significantly upped my score card on the bus. I do so love the teen years. Is that what we call them? The tens? Sucks to be young right now.
Except for iPods. And Blackberries. And You Tube.
Okay, it doesn't really suck at all.
Bye Benny, poor guy. Gotta run...this is my stop.