To The Guy Sitting Opposite Me On The Tram

On the tram some mornings heading into town, you know those mornings I am too lazy to walk, or those mornings Daniel has spent an inordinate amount of time in the bathroom and kept me waiting, me waiting, shifting my weight from one foot to the other complaining about his beauty routine, outside the bathroom door, I am like a new puppy barely with its eyes open. 

And, you know, it is really easy for my eyes to come to rest of some guy’s crotch in tight suit pants even before I realise I am even doing it. 

Easy.

Then, suddenly he crosses his legs, or his hand slides over the bulge in the black wool mix material.

Oops. And I look up. The guy is looking at me, looking at him, looking at me, having just looked at me, looking at his, er, bits. 

I look away, out the tram window closest to me, like that doesn’t make it obvious. I don’t look back. Maybe briefly if he is still on the tram when I get off. Momentarily. 

You’d hate him to say anything in the middle of a crowded tram, in front of the other punters.