Punk Vision

She was not the kind of girl he usually found desirable; the unshaven legs, the unfamiliarity with the shower, the chain smoking, the brazen punk buzz of her iPod, above all the smoke that hung on her every breath and impregnated her garish clothes.

He didn't know what she had, he just knew he liked it, liked it a lot. Above all he wanted to explore what ticked inside her head; underneath that cropped black and green hair and decorative piercings. She must be such an unusual and fascinating person.

Every day he tried to see her; he knew roughly when she left her flat opposite for work and roughly when she'd be back. He would look out from his top floor flat on the long straight road of Victorian houses all broken up into bedsits. A typical student area even if he, and he expected she, were not students. He hated it when she arrived back, often laughing, sometimes sullen, with friends – especially if they were male. And longed to know where she'd been when she alone strode to her doorway.
And then, one drizzly mid afternoon, he was walking passed the bus stop at the end of the road just as she was alighting from a city bus. He just stared, did not know what to say, she knew he was looking at her, looked back and just brushed passed - defiant. It was clear from that look of disdain she was offended.

She didn't know what he had, he just knew she hated it, and he would never get to prove her wrong.