My business Suit Man.

My business suit man.

Towering over me by ten full inches. Slacks brushing the tops of his dark brown leather Nordstrom’s shoes. They tie but only for show. He sits and his fancy argyle socks show, revealing that they do, indeed, match his belt.

This guy means business

He’s wearing an eggshell button down, tailored made specifically for his shoulder width and the length of his arms. It all just fits so perfectly. He’s wearing a sports jacket that is the standard three buttons, and a dark charcoal tint (no pin stripes…thank god!). His haircut is everything you’d imagine “boring” could be. A full head of hair, cut, "crew" style combed ever so politely to the side. It's all well thought out; all the colors match more perfectly than a J Crew mannequin on a Store Opening day.

His style is so inoffensive and conservative, I already know he’s the right type of boy for me.

Pale skin, hefty, strong fingers. I can see them as he pull out his Kindle probably to catch up on his New York Times for the last two days. His nose is rigid; there with a purpose. Pointy at the very tip; a nose I’d call ‘dangerously painful.’ While I only get a quick glance of his eyes, I already know they’re ever so short of stunning, brown. If I look longer they maybe might be honey colored; but I don’t look long; a glance is so much better. And even if they are short of stunning, brown… that’s okay. I make exceptions for my business suit man.

He’s fancy and beautiful in every sort of way. His nearing-30 -year-old-skin, full of spunk and perfect, a tan that looks like he travels; dark, heavy eyebrows, chocolate colored hair, and a jaw line that I can recognize two miles away… it’s like I’ve just glanced at the most perfect sculpture. In twenty years he’ll be considered handsome and charming. With his salt and pepper hair and his five o’ clock shadow, all the women will do the classic double take. And he’ll smile…knowing that, it’s flattering, but he has something so much better at home.

Maybe. But most likely not…

In twenty years the ring on his left hand will be strangling his finger from a ten year marriage that’s been slowly strangling his life. The skin will puff outside of the limit of the1/8” thick platinum band. The area where his wallet had ready-to-use condoms will have picture of his two boys dressed in soccer uniforms, with the one knee on the grass and their hand placed on a soccer ball. Their smiles will be boasting two missing front teeth. With golden hair and blue eyes I’ll know I never was his type even if I had sat next to him on that record breaking scorching hot Seattle day. Even if he said “hi” to me, and I said “hi” back, and if we small talked about the weather, and how we’d rather be at the beach or on a boat, instead of going to our usual 9 to 5’s. We would have talked about how we were stoked it was Friday. We’d make eye contact and smile in each others’ eyes. There would be connection, but that’s all. That’s all and nothing more.

The general rule is to never ask for a number on the bus, or even off the bus if it’s someone who rides the bus with you frequently. Because, what if you never call? There’s a chance you’ll see them again every day for the rest of your working lives and, well...who would want to deal that that kind of awkward?

That’s just if I’d sat next to him.

But I didn’t. I did not. It was too hot and because it was too hot hardly anyone was going to work. It was Friday, and I imagined people called in sick to visit the beach. These hot days must be celebrated.

Thus, aside from the diligent twelve, the bus was empty. And for the first time in weeks I’d gotten my own bench seat. He sat behind me. And that was that. But even if, even if…

I wasn’t his type anyhow. I know this because of the picture in his wallet twenty years from now. Golden hair, green eyes...that woman has strong genes.

I’m not his type. I’m not. And this is how I justify not speaking to my business suit man.