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Rated: E · Fiction · Psychology · #1998276
A love most brief.
She had left three red buttons unbuttoned.

Ed blushed. He folded his Sunday paper. The train jolted as he crossed his legs.

"Oof," he said. Startled, but eyes fixed on her, Ed collected himself.

Those unbuttoned red buttons. Intentionally unbuttoned. And Ed was sure of it. Nestled between those three unbuttoned red buttons was a bosom. And she intended that. Ed was sure of it.

The train jolted again. She kept smiling, though Ed had caught a slight frown. She rode alone. Those brown eyes skated around the cabin. He blinked, and she stared straight ahead. It was a ploy. And Ed saw right through it.

Ed knew a woman unattended was a woman unhappy. She needed him to know her; to tend to her; to comfort her. So he rose, Sunday paper in hand, and sat beside her.

At first, Ed said nothing.

Then, Ed cleared his throat.

"I saw it."

Her mouth twitched.

"Saw what?"

"I saw you look at me."

Ed's eyes had drifted, and he couldn't avert them soon enough. She quickly buttoned her blouse and rose. And then, unlike before, Ed wasn't so sure. A door opened and shut. Ed returned to his paper, alone.
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