Mark was no different from the regular sea of rebel rousers and miscreants that normally purchased its low cost under the radar seats.  Worn and rough; he had come aboard this bus of working class degenerates for a way back home. He looked around and noticed a young girl sitting a couple seats down and felt a pull he had not in some time, her legs were muscular like an athlete and Mark imagined that she ran track. Her blue silver shorts bunched up at the cusp of her buttock, making the invitation to her secrets almost visible, she had light brown hair, and white ear buds dangled as she bopped her head to the pop music she no doubt was listening to. He could not fully see her face but on one of her checks he could see a small mole and the sun from outside casting rays through the soft hair on the side of her face. Mark felt the pulse in his cock begin to flutter, a sensation he had not experienced in some time (the drinking had made his dick all but useless in the past few years).  He adjusted uncomfortably in his seat, the idea of approaching her excited him even more, he thought that at any moment he might need to go to the dirty piss drenched stall in the back, and abuse himself to relive the buildup of sexual misogyny that flowed through his mind. Mark knew that a forty something man could not even begin talking to such a young thing. He rubbed his hands on his jeans, their dry skin caught and scratched at the fabric. He brought his hands up and looked down upon them, they were stained from his job, the oil creating a permanent dirty look to them, and the cracks of the flesh made them look like the surface of a vast and dry dessert. He was resigned to his fate of loneliness, and looking about on the faces of his fellow passengers he knew he was not alone. Mark felt a connection to them, the wanderers, the regretful, unsure of every step, the strain of daily routine weighing like a Mac truck filled with failure. He knew that in this life he would never again touch such a beautiful thing, it felt like a sick curse, this trick of age. He yearned for a bottle, just a little heat to get through this moment of existential malaise. For the first time in a long time he started to think of god, and felt anger. He knew then and there, through the soft skin of her youth that god did indeed exist and that bastard was a son of a bitch.