A Hand on my Thigh

His Perspective:

So I’m riding on the campus bus between classes. The bus is pretty full and I’m sitting about halfway back in the window seat.  So far the seat next to me has been empty.  The bus stops at the next stop, and a bunch of people step on and lurch for seats as the bus pulls away.  A particularly cute young lady spots the seat in my row and sits down.  She places her backpack between her knees, looks straight ahead, then without ceremony places her left hand, palm down, squarely on my right thigh.  My brain seizes up.  I glance at her, and she’s still looking straight ahead without expression, as though nothing has happened.  How can she not know this is my thigh and not hers?  I turn to look out the window and consider my options:  Pick up her wrist and place her hand on her leg.  Hmmm, that would seem rude.  Like saying her hand was a smelly piece of sausage.  Maybe I should put my hand on her thigh too.  Oy, I’m not that brave.  Besides I don’t even know her.  I could say, ‘excuse me, but your hand is on my leg’.  But in fact I like her hand there; it feels like every nerve in my body is connected to the spot under her hand.  If this is an unusual way to make a pass at me, you’d think she would at least look at me.  I’m thrilled and baffled at the same time, and can’t figure out what to do.  So I do nothing but stare out the windows, seeing nothing, feeling her hand there for the next ten minutes until the bus arrives and we all get off.  She doesn’t spare me a glance as we all depart, although I stare after her until she’s gone.  Later I realize that she left her hand there the whole time.  Most people fidget to some degree, and if it was accidental she would have pulled it away before too long.  It had to be intentional, didn’t it?  What the hell just happened?

Her Perspective:

I like Professor Dunlop who teaches my psychology class, but his field assignments are unnerving.  This week’s assignment is to invade a stranger’s personal space, then write about the experience and how I feel about it.  Here comes my bus.  I climb aboard, and there’s this guy sitting in a window seat.  The seat next to him is empty.  I sit down, put my backpack on the floor, and decide I might as well get this assignment over with now.  The guy is kinda cute.  OK, here goes.  Reaching to my left, I put my hand on his thigh.  I keep looking straight ahead, but I see him glance in my direction with a puzzled look on his face.  He can’t just pull away because the seats are narrow.  He just sits there, then turns away.  Doesn’t he know my hand is on his thigh?  Maybe if I squeeze… no, that’s too much for even me.  Now I can’t take it away, because then I’d have to explain.  And anyway it feels kinda electric.  So now I sit here with my hand on his thigh, and he keeps looking out the window.  It takes forever to get to my next stop, and I make a quick getaway without looking back.  Somehow I can feel his gaze on my back though.  Lordy was that weird.  Or do I mean thrilling?  Oh hell, I don’t know.  And now I have no idea how to write about it.  What’ll I do if I ever see the guy again?

A Note from the author:
“His perspective” actually happened to me.  “Her perspective” is my best guess about her motivations.  Even now, 27 years after it happened, I still occasionally think about it and wonder.  Do you have any ideas?