For the first month he didn't even talk to her, just stood there in the same place every day, his right arm grasping the ring, left hand holding the novel, stealing glances and sweating through the November chill while the D5 bus lurched through the District, over the Potomac, and into Northern Virginia. Two seats behind her and to the right. Leonard stood in the aisle and keened away, staring, grimacing, blinking in frustration. Sometimes, he would talk to himself, "jesus Leonard shit damn come on man say something man oh dammit shit come on…" It was hard to watch, like reliving every bad moment of junior high every day for half an hour. All of us regulars knew it: Leonard was in love with Pretty Lark.

We followed along from our usual seats—the Lawyer, the Office Lady, the Old Russian, and me. We snuck glances, listened, and watched his reflection squirm and jitter in the glass as we lumbered through the city. There was no talking, no communication, not even so much as a raised eyebrow between us. We knew the rules of DC commuting: heads down, mind your own business, and most importantly—never, ever, interact. We shared Leonard and Pretty Lark the way strangers share a movie.

Day after day, he stood there, swaying with traffic and boiling with desire. Day after day, we watched.

The D5 didn't attract the most glamorous group. We were, after all, rolling past K Street, through Georgetown, into the nondescript Virginia suburbs. But even among us, Leonard stood out in the way only true geeks can. His glasses were thick and rectangular, with lenses that magnified his eyes into a mongoloid intensity. He wore his hair in a modified mullet, longish in the back, too short in front, greasy tufts sticking out at odd angles. He wore tight sweater vests and black pennyloafers into which he'd placed shiny new nickels. I guessed his age at about twenty-five—around the same as the Lawyer, just a little younger than me—but he still looked like an uncomfortable kid on his way to Sunday school.

I pictured him going home at night to the little apartment I was sure he shared with his mother or grandmother. He would be kind, uncomplaining, would make dinner and sit quietly while she knitted to Jeopardy or Wheel of Fortune. "Why don't you ever bring home a nice girl?" she would ask.

His mind would fill with visions of Pretty Lark. "Want dessert?" he would say. "There's pudding."

For her part, Pretty Lark never seemed to notice a thing. She sat stoic, reading novels about single Brits in the city or working through the crossword puzzle, the white cords of her iPod trailing down her long, lovely neck and disappearing into the shimmering bell of her hair. She was like the beauty in an old horror movie, unaware of the swamp creature lurking directly behind. We were the audience, torn between shouting a warning—"Watch out! Look behind!"—and wondering what was going to happen next. What would it look like when the creature wrapped his tentacles around that lovely wrist? Maybe she would run away screaming. Maybe they would live happily ever after.

It was just before Thanksgiving and the streets were nearly empty as the bus barreled along M Street. The regulars were all in place, pretending to read. Leonard shifted and grunted and stared at her back while she worked the crossword. It was cold that day and Leonard had bundled himself into a Salvation Army trenchcoat and yellow duck boots. He was reading a book called Resort Hotel Management. I had always thought of Leonard as a computer guy, a help desk person, network administrator. Maybe even a mailroom helper. Resort Hotel Management?

The bus cruised through the intersection of M and Wisconsin. The skies were low, and everything smelled like snow and old raincoats. Suddenly, the quiet was broken with a loud thump. Everything dipped down, boom, then popped up again. I swallowed my gum. The Office Lady gasped. The Old Russian swore in a language I didn't know, something that sounded like Russian but also not quite like Russian. Leonard was dumped unceremoniously into the aisle. "Pothole," the driver said, righting the bus and continuing toward the Key Bridge. "Just a pothole."

Leonard groaned where he sat in the aisle, his glasses askew, his book cockeyed on the dirty bus floor. Finally he stood and smiled, brushed himself off. "No problem," he said, gesturing toward the front. "I'm okay."

Pretty Lark turned and walked toward him. The Office Lady and the Lawyer stared. The Old Russian smiled. Pretty Lark took a few steps forward and Leonard's face melted. I thought he would laugh, cry, explode into a million little pieces.

"Excuse me," she said, motioning to the floor.

Leonard smiled. He mouthed the word "hi." His lower lip quaked.

"My pen," she said.

His eyes welled up and he mouthed it again. "Hi."

Pretty Lark bent down and picked up the pen. She walked toward the front and sat down in her usual seat. They got off at the usual stop and Leonard trailed her into the usual building. The Office Lady returned to her novel, the Lawyer to his work, and the Old Russian to his newspaper. I stared after Leonard and Pretty Lark for a few moments, watching as they got swallowed up into the mass of office workers.

Sometimes, it made me sad about Leonard and Pretty Lark.

At that point it had been a month since Scott and I had broken up, two months since he'd started showing up for dates in a full sweat, fresh from the gym, with the fake smile and the bad acting. Waiting me out. As usual, it was me who had to do the breaking up, him who made sad and stoic as I explained how I couldn't keep going on like this, asked did he have anything he wanted to tell me. He wiped sweat from his brow and shook his head. "I don't know," he said. "It's like sometimes you're like, half-there, you know?"

I hadn't been able to go back to the gym since, the smell of sweat forever mixed with the feeling of slow, passive rejection.

And so I went to work and I came home and I watched Leonard grinding his teeth, pining away a few feet behind her, and it made me sad for all of us.

I wondered what the rest of them thought about it, if they carried it around with them too, like the constipated plot of some romance novel. I imagined the Lawyer sharing Leonard with his co-workers—slicked-up, Brooks Brothers-wearing young men who would soon earn triple my editor's salary. They would laugh over their Starbucks, listening to the tales of Leonard the Loser, shaking their heads and quietly thanking god that there were guys who always said the wrong thing, broke into a sweat at the sight of a pretty girl, and never figured out how to wear their hair. Guys who would still get picked last if we chose up teams for dodgeball right there on the D5 bus.

The Office Lady had no doubt seen plenty of Lawyers, plenty of Leonards, and I could feel her disappointment as she stared sad-eyed at the dirty street below. I often wished she could connect with the Old Russian. I was sure they were both single, he maybe a widower, she never married. The Russian would be a good husband. He was gentlemanly, neat, handsome in his way. I pictured him stepping off a plane or a boat, stretching out and taking in the American air. Would he be surprised, I wondered, to find himself in a place where people passed each other by, every day, without even the slightest thought? Did he dream of home, of steppes and hearty fires, cozy pubs and vodka and old, old friends?

God knows what he thought of Leonard.

The day it happened seemed like any other day. It was in that weird time between Thanksgiving and the end of the year holidays, when everything feels rushed and languid at the same time, everybody waiting in place, trying to make it through to the long vacation. It was snowing lightly, enough to cause delays up and down the metro system, so the bus was fifteen minutes late. We sat red-cheeked and annoyed, anxious to get to work, get it over with, and get home.

Leonard got on at the usual stop and I kept my head in my novel. I heard the Lawyer cough, then cough again. I looked up. Leonard was carrying a white tulip, holding it the way you might handle a newborn kitten. He was sweating more than usual, talking to himself, running a hand through newly greased hair. He wore black pants and a sweater that was just this side of too yellow, the way I imagined a driver's ed teacher might dress for a big date.

I almost stood up. I wanted to help him, to pull the tulip from his hands and explain that he was in over his head. She was too pretty. Her life was probably full of invitations and come-ons and dates and dancing and all of the things afforded to a single, attractive woman in the city. That it would never work. That it never did.

When she got on, he closed his eyes and breathed deeply once, twice, three times. He looked to the ceiling, pushed himself up the aisle, and thrust the tulip into her nose. "For you," he said. "A pretty flower for the pretty lark."

"What?" she said. "A pretty what?" She pulled back a little. But then she smiled.

She took the flower.

"Pretty Lark," Leonard said, "that's what I'd call you."

"Okay…" she said, glancing around. The Office Lady turned to the window. The Old Russian put his eyes on the sports headlines. The Lawyer stared, raised his eyebrows.

"I'm Leonard," he said. "We work in the same building."

"Oh," she said. "I'm Sue."

"I will call you Pretty Lark," he said.

"Well. Okay. I guess." She twirled the tulip around in her hand. "Thank you for the flower, Leonard."

He smiled and stood behind her like a guardian, a gargoyle in a yellow sweater. He was beaming, glowing. He was transformed. Even his sweat took on the sheen of victory.

"This stop, Clarendon," the driver said. The bus ground to a halt.

They walked out together. She chatted as he lumbered beside her, his hands clenched into fists, his legs stiff and awkward. She carried the flower against her chest. I watched as they melted into the crowd and disappeared behind the mirrored glass.

"Holy shit," the lawyer said.

"No swearing please," the bus driver said.

The Lawyer looked to me. The Old Russian and the Office Lady stared after Leonard and Pretty Lark, at the space where they had disappeared, just like they did every day. The bus continued on, the low rumble like a heartbeat inside my ears.

I had a feeling then like an opportunity was opening up, a chance for each of us to reach out, make this in-between world a real place where we laughed and talked and touched each other's lives. Where I could take the Office Lady's hand and place it onto the Old Russian's heart and we would all just know.

I looked up but the Lawyer had turned away. The Office Lady stared into her lap. The Old Russian examined the style section.

"Last stop," the driver said.

I opened up my novel, held it in my lap, and looked straight ahead.