Most days, an elegant lady steps onto the bus.  The first time, I openly gaped at her.  Last week, she smiled at me, and this morning, I wished her a good morning... 

I have a phantasy of stepping off at her bus stop, following her to her office, asking myself in, and engaging in direct and frank sex.  This lady is not a teenager:  she knows.  About men, about art, about sculpture, about unfaithfulless.

I would ask her to blindfold me, and take off my clothes, leaving the very last to her.  I would like to engage in a physical ritual, wherein the imaginative conversation would be erudite, civilized and fortright.

A fountain would gush, wasted, and I would succumb.

Such is my imaginary life...