Late December afternoon. Dark descending too early upon night. Sitting on a crowded 73 bus, antsy to be home. To be warm.

I look up. See a woman sitting opposite. Chestnut skin, red tints glowing through her brown surface. Large features. Almond eyes. Strong, Roman nose. Longish black hair, middle parted, hanging straight on either side. Tying head to shoulders. Framing her face in place.

Late 20’s. Maybe 30’s. Statuesque. A woman who was never cute. Likely a gawky little girl. An awkward teen. It takes time to grow into such noble features.

Today she looks good, proud. A decade from now she’ll be formidable.

My lips spread into a wide smile. So many good things do I see transpiring for her. She looks up, catches my stare, forms a half smile herself. Then we both look away.

I want to say, “You’re beautiful.” Loud enough to be heard above the bustle of the bus.

But, of course, I do not. I am an aging white man at the quarter point of 21^st century America. I am fully aware of the propriety, the constraints, of what am I am allowed to say and what is verboten. I am, in some part, responsible for our caution. Knowing how easily the most innocent comment spirals into misunderstanding.

I sit silent through the rest of the ride. Steal an occasional glance at the striking woman. Dream what it could be like to live in a world where a stranger can say, “You’re beautiful,” and both parties simply be elevated by that appreciation. Maybe next year…