Every morning he saw her on the Finchbottom Express, in the same seat, she was a twenty something, a sweet young thing who smiled at him each day, occasionally a “Hello” or “Hi” was exchanged but nothing more profound that that.
The carriage clicked and clacked as it rushed us towards the throng of Abbottsford, the train wheels singing their staccato song and he looked at her and instantly pictured her wearing a thong and she looked up from her book and gave him a quizzical look.
“Can you read my thoughts?” he asked inside his head and promptly decided to think about sports but that didn’t help in the slightest because he then saw her playing beach volleyball.
She was a twenty something, a sweet young thing, who looked at the ordinary thirty something, quizzically.
“This is the affect you have on me” he thought “so you had better not read my mind?”
Oh how he would like to brush the hair from her brow, and run his finger through her soft brown curls, before he caressed the soft curves of her tender flesh as he divests her of her intimate attire and then satisfy his every carnal want and need, and at the ecstatic moment of their mutual satisfaction he sees that a smile had replaced her quizzical look, briefly before her eyes return to the pages of her book and he knew he would have those same thoughts the next time they travelled together on the train.
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