I got caught staring the other day, though I don't think he cared since his neck was well-hidden under that strategic fat roll.
I got a 'fuck off' glance under quitting-time eyelids, so I laid off and eyed some less observant tweakers near the window (collarbones indeed). But my attention soon orbited back.
It likely wouldn't have relieved the poor guy's embarrassment much to know he was being scrutinized to subsidize my shitty ability to draw portly figures, men especially, and my attempt at him didn't flatter, so much as exist in the tightest of squints.
Not like he'd ever see my attempt to practice him into my sketchbook, but I was feeling a little guilty nonetheless. The tweakers were easier--all short, sharp lines and loose clothes.
He gave me this little, specific glare and slowly snorted some air to make sure I knew how much of a jerk I was.
Part of me felt this little spark of teenage defiance, to be punk and not care who in public I'm pissing on, but self-assurance has a funny way of crumbling under the weight of your own want for people to like you--and that's not a fact that someone drawing on public transit can easily refute ("Oh wow, you draw? Let's see--it looks so good! Are you an artist?").
And it's ultimately hard to feel righteous when you are, undoubtedly, just someone creepily staring at people on the bus and etching their likeness into your personal picture book--delusions of artistic grandeur (and collarbones) aside. But fuck, it's fantastic anatomical practice, so who cares if folks think I'm a goon--so long as I can manage not to catch their glance.
Really, the dude ought to not care what I'm up to and just drive his bloody bus.
I'm starting a new section of Places Where Things Are tonight, to have somewhere to post sketches of people from the bus.
Most will be unfinished and wretched, but eh.
Most things are anyways