What might have been said (in but another time, and perhaps another place):
When he slid into the seat one row over from her own, he also blocked her window. It wasn’t that Linda frequently found her speedy postcard of Vancouver and Environs all that interesting, but now scrutiny of her fellow passengers was no longer possible.
Well then, nothing to do but inspect her workworn feet and check on the increasingly alarming progress of callus A-10 -so named for its location on her left pinky toe, and its growing resemblance to Atlas the Titan. Nearby, B-9 and S-9 (Bugsy and Skittles) continued their mediocre existence, jutting symmetrically and aggressively off of respective knuckles, almost pathetic in their uniformity. Atlas, meanwhile, had made impressive progress this week, angrily burrowing against the worn brown strap of her flipflops, his broadening shoulders tapering into a tiny head-like knot.
“You have beautiful feet.”
An alarming statement considering the circumstances.
Linda turned an appropriately cool glare onto the beaming visage of Window Blocker (or WB), his boiled-turnip complexion currently accentuated by the broad gleam of his “pearlies.”
A real meathead, she decided.
No man with integrity would wear a white polo in this heat and not sweat. Thankfully, no question had been asked. She resumed her rigid concentration on the floor in front of her.
“How about going for a walk later?” This time she looked up quickly.
Who did this guy think he was? WB had moved straight from inconvenient jerk category directly into “creeper” category – in less than two sentences no less! Linda, stroking the rugose jacket covering the business end of her steel toe boots (that sat on the seat next to her), spoke loudly.
“No, dirtbag, and save your asshat overtures for your immediate relations.”
A well dressed sikh man turned slightly at this and asshat had the good grace to flush and retreat.
“Sorry.” Linda mouthed to the well-dressed man.
“Don’t be,” he replied. “Nobody likes an asshat.”