Frank Reynolds, 57, Retired

Holding onto his wife for dear life as the bus skids around another corner trying to keep on schedule he can't help but stare at the high school girls that got on at the last stop. There is a hunger in his eyes he no longer has a name for, but his hands remember what it feels like to touch and to hold. He looks down at his wife in her government-funded wheelchair and thinks back to when the two of them were new. Thirty some odd years ago he wouldn't have had that hunger in his eyes for anyone else. His wife raises her arm and extends her hand toward his face, the face of the man she has woken up next to for the better part of four decades. She still has that nameless hunger, wants nothing more than to satisfy it. But while the mind if willing, the flesh is feeble. Once again leering at the forbidden fruit at the back of the bus he mistakes her gesture for simple instruction and pulls the stop request wire. When the bus lurches to a stop a few seconds later he holds firmly onto the handles of his wife's wheelchair and backs off of the bus without incident, the girls at the back all but forgotten.