The girls faced each other in a small pocket of space on the streetcar. One had hair the color of the desert at sunset. The other had soft, onyx curls escaping from a ponytail and quivering by her cheeks. They stood as well as they could in the onslaught of other transit riders: self-centered, oblivious people that neither noticed nor cared about the others they jostled as they searched for a seat.
An exceptionally attentionless man shoved the dark haired girl into her friend as he stomped by. The fairer one raised a hand to keep from falling. The hand rested on the soft, cotton fabric of the black camisole. Their eyes locked as they shared an embarrassed laugh.
As the vehicle began to move, the pseudo-rescuer's palm continued to rest on her friend's shirt. With a secret smile, she stroked the other girl's belly. A slow, shy smile bloomed in response, and a pair of cornflower blue eyes looked down. There was the beginning of a blush in her cheeks.
I felt a little bit dirty watching the scene unfold before me. There was no where for me to move, however, as another passenger sat beside me and blocked the aisle. There was also the fact of a crowd that stood all around, pressing against each other, while more passengers tried to board at each stop. I consoled myself that there wasn't anywhere I could look but at these college age girls.
Over the rumble of the streetcar, I heard the dark haired girl raise the slightest of protests.
"Gisele," she murmured to her friend. Her eyes lifted enough to glance at the people around them.