For a month I’d see her nearly every morning on the bus: chestnut eyes and hair, dark brown skin, lovely hard breasts peaking from the top of her summer dress or pushing through a tight-fitting cotton top. Her mouth, pursed sensuously, was lip-sticked lightly with a pale shade. Her strong-looking knees, surrounded by prominent tendons, showed themselves, bare at the hem of her mid-length dress—they supported a worn hardback edition of For Whom the Bell Tolls. Why that title? I longed to love her and never wanted to see her again—only the second wish has come true.