She's under the flyover every day. Bosom well-displayed. Glistening legs raised. Shiny bits of fabric. Sinful eyes. 9876454538 scrawled above her. And ‘At Lili’s Place’. Testosterone levels rise at her sight in passing bus passengers. Eyes automatically meet hers. Sore yearning grips the man.
Bus nears flyover. Red signal. Eyes turn left. Gaze touches her feet, rise. Up, up, stop. A shred of cloth breaks the continuum. Gaze paralysed. Rises again. Up, up. Stop. Signal turns green. Jerk. Glance at her face. She disappears round the bend.
Sigh. To office. Boss nags. Back home. Wife nags. Red signal: second glance. Fantasies. At Lili’s place. Manhood resurrected. Balding head, swelling paunch momentarily forgotten. Bus moves on. Sigh again. Back to real life. Balding head, swelling paunch, nagging wife.
Morning. Jump into bus. Signal, another signal. Flyover approaching. Expectant, dreamy glance to left. Reached flyover. She’s not there. Huh? Look again. Look hard. No. Cannot happen. What is a Mahatma Phule poster doing there?
(Runner-up, Flash Fiction Contest, Caferati, 24 October 2005)