Bus Stop, Early Monday Morning; Or Nostalgia

Monday morning.  Again.  And here is the bus.
Again.
I have settled into my usual seat – the one just after the surveillance camera.  I like to know that, should I be accosted in any way, there will be a record of it.
They climb aboard one stop after mine, shivering and under-dressed.
The young couple coming down the aisle is sorely misplaced. 
I pull an earplug, in case they speak.
His arm is around her.  Skin-tight black pants, a torn Misfit tee-shirt, black Converse tennis shoes, he has a young, sleepy scowl on his face.  It is clear that he is here to guard her against the wiles of the 6:30 Monday morning commuters.
Because you just never know what us bus types might do. 
I cast a sideways glance at them.  Clad in torn fishnets, her white legs are sure to be goose-bumped, although I cannot conceive of a way to appropriately ascertain this. She pulls long, slender legs under her, a fawn of a girl-woman, only to remember the view she is no doubt giving the bus driver, should he check his mirror. 
She places her feet on the floor, leans into the young man and places her head on his shoulder.  He kisses her temple.  I watch as he pulls his phone out, checks Facebook. 
I watch as he takes a picture of her. 
And I think of the men who have loved me.
I get off the bus, step into the City Center, head toward the elevator.
They never spoke, those two on the bus.
They didn’t need to.