Short Story: WILBUR

I don't know if it's just me yeah I'm pretty sure it's just me, that has these vague thoughts, but not just once, on multiple occasions, and I don't think they are strange at all while I think them, or even after, but sometimes I might just say it out loud and then, then I realize that's not what other people think, ever. Like I was sitting next to this stranger on the muni the other day, older gentleman, attractive, but nothing special. I wasn't physically attracted to him or anything of that sort, but strangely I was oddly enough think about him a few hours later, I kinda missed him. A man with beautiful bone structure, not my type at all though, white v-neck and a black double breasted jacket. I've seen him around, to be honest, I lied, I know him but not very well. I've had a few acquaintances with him. He's a nice guy, an intellectual type, but not at all, he's an asshole really, but the good kind, not the bad kind. I sometimes like to plan his day out and hypothesize what he is doing sequentially. I know it's obscure, I use that word a lot, but its very, very vague. I think he drunks a cup of hot tea in the morning, he seem like he would sleep with his sock on, yeah so his socks are on, and he get a cup of tea, a flavored green tea, I presume, then he sits and reads the newspaper, the section on the economy first, but then he lances over the comic section too, just when no one's looking, not that he cares what people think of him, or so he says. So yeah, after "glancing" (actually intensively cracking up at the morning comics, he takes care of "business" in the bathroom, you know the usual routine, whatever that maybe, I don't really want my mind wandering in that territory, I like to think I'm not that twisted, yet. He picks up his dictionary off the bookshelf, opens it, and closes his eyes, turns to page 72, of his Oxford Dictionary, from God knows when, and scrolls his finger down, it's the word of the day. He puts on the television, The Discovery Channel, Anthony Bourdain: No Reservations, as he stirs up some gourmet omelets for breakfast. He scurries it up quickly, he's a fast eater. It's 9:30 am, I just like to plan his mornings, before he leaves the house, because I don't want to think of the people he meets durning the day, and especially not the night, I'd rather like to day dream abut the time he spends in solitude. Hopefully he spends his nigh alone, reading Whitman or Thoreau or Keroac. Maybe he reads wikipedia, some random facts. I would like that. Yeah, I would really, really like that.