"Are you married?" she smiled, asking after having noticed the now missing ring on his left hand. He was an opportunist, she did not mind. Her fiancee had been relocated to Chicago, and the bus ride was not a short one, she decided to make the most of it. She had always enjoyed the company of strangers: basked in the animosity of being completely honest without fear of being judged; but more, the thrill of being completely dishonest and met with no refutal. He stared at her neck, admiring the contours of her chin, the light from the window played with her eyecolor, pools of gold to black sinisters depending on the bus's location.

"No," he lied, with a smile that could have won him an Oscar. He knew well that she would not sleep with him, but he did not care, it was the chase, her smell, the tips of her breasts. It was her chemistry - throwing him into a chemical (im)balance. 

"You represent everything that I am against", she whispered, mostly to herself, quickly regretting the statement. 

"Because you know you cannot have me," he smiled, his secret out, paused, "or is it the tie and suit for a four hour drive?"

"the promise of commitment, the fear of stability, the picket fencing and the 2.5 children," the honesty in her own voice made her blush. 

"You are my youth," he grabbed her face, penetrated her eyes with his soul, "but, everything changes, everyone dies, and only artists live young forever" his voice was harsh, condemning. 

She grins, her eyes become sinister, black, the sun has set. 

"then is it not wonderful that I am a painter?" the beauty of strangers is that you owe them nothing, she thought, as she rolled her sweater into a pillow, placed it against the window and fell into a colourful sleep.