I got on the bus, and I recognized him. He patted the seat next to him with what I like to remember as a lecherous smile. (It was really just a friendly smile.)
We were in graduate school together, and had only exchanged a sentence or two. On the bus ride I learned that he lived in Santa Monica. (I lived in Brentwood.) He liked to ride his bike to the beach for a break from studying. Not my type, but he'd make a really nice friend.
He got off the bus before me, but it was only one stop before. I started walking to his stop in the mornings, hoping we might have the same schedule. I started riding my bike to the beach after classes, hoping to find myself riding along next to him.
He lived in Santa Monica; I lived in Brentwood--we lived a block apart. It was more a matter of perception than city limits. I never ran into him biking--it turned out he had hurt his knee and didn't bike for awhile. But I did catch him at his bus stop from time to time. He finally asked me out, after a long wait of a week or so.
He started moving in, about 6 weeks after our first date, one paper shopping bag at a time, walking the block from Santa Monica to Brentwood. That was 1978. We're still living together.
Sometimes the guys you meet on buses are keepers.