With an appointment across town, I found myself on my old commuting route, bus #47. It’s a hot ticket during rush hour, and as it wound through the streets of Cambridgeport, I felt like an interloper among the regulars. They sleepily boarded, smartphones and newspapers in hand, or after breathlessly dashing across the street to catch the thing, because, as I well knew, the next one wasn’t coming for another 20 minutes.
As I thumbed my own phone, I sensed that someone was looking in my direction. I glanced up to see a Javier Bardem look-alike, squeaky clean in a polo shirt and khakis, glancing intently at the woman next to me. She was oblivious to his quick stares as she fumbled with her headphones. As a new addition to what I assumed was their daily routine, I considered elbowing her to alert her that Javier was here, adorable, and dying for her to look at him, just this once — to make this morning different from all of the rest.