[Fiction - An imitation of PG Wodehouse style narration. A different narrative from 3 vantage points]
(Third-person narrative)
An early hour on a tranquil Monday morning found him hoisting himself onto a doubledecker. Dolby Trotshaw was in a hurry and hence collided generously with everyone at hand, and on board. By the time he had navigated to the other end where he was supposed to alight, mumbled apologies came effortlessly, even to those whom he had successfully managed to avert. By the time he disembarked, his speech and mind were sufficiently disturbed and this affected his steering. Hence he fell.
When Dolby Trotshaw fell, he fell in a manner more suggestive of a natural catastrophe than of a vigorous young man who has lost control of his limbs. He fell, or rather, chose to fall, as perceived by the victim, on a slight young woman in stilleto heels and golden hair and a Gucci handbag that told us she was fashionable. Now when a dark haired young man falls on a golden haired young woman, it can be argued that he has fallen in what virtually amounts to love at first sight. Love, to quote an unmistakable saying, cast its silken fetters around him. Dolby Trotshaw's heart flutterred.
He lay on the bare roadside by the bus-stop on top of her and was largely reminded of the striking resemblence of this chance encounter with scenes from a random Asian motion picture. In mostof those, first love encounters were almost always accidental and ended invariably in marriage. He examined her pure honey face with great scrutiny and not a single flaw could he detect on it, which placed her immediately on the top of his priority-list of women to be married. But first of course, he would have to ascertain her name and where she lived, which might involve a certain amount of spadework, but this could be done with the aid of private detectives and bloodhounds.
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(First-person narrative)
It was a fine everyday dumb Monday morning and I was at the bus-stop waiting for my usual goddamned bus to arrive. Now its not like my life suffers ailingly from the lack of entertainment but you certainly don't expect to find it at the goddamn bus-stop at bloody 8:30 in the morning fer godsakes. So I'm like craning my neck and squinting my eyes to focus on the bus in the distance to catch its number, but when I look to my left at this huge red doubledecker that had just stopped and was about to leave, what do I see? Hell, this son of a horse of a man's like on top of this dame who's like under him - on the frickin road for goddsake. Now why do people act like this in public and pedestrian places, hell I just don't get it. Now if you've gotta do stuff, go find yourself a loo or a house or a goddamn horse stable or somethin', but no! You're just too frickin' cool and open these days - thats the whole problem with this place. Nobody cares if you're doing it on the road and everyone's watching ya and its disgusting or what, you just gotta do it then and there! Not like those two were doing anything - I mean they were just frickin staring at each otherr like two dumb ducks who'd forgotten how to friggin' quack and the guy - his mouth was half-open and he was looking at the dame like he was high or doped or somethin and smiling like an arsehole. Finally the woman found her brains and pushed him to the side and got up and snapped something at him and walked off, but the loser was still grinning at her back when she went away as if he knew something nobody else did, and idiots like that piss the hell out of me. Now, the way she walked off on him, it looked like he might have tripped and fallen on her from the bus but he sure made it look like a goddamned Romeo & Juliet soul-searching love episode on the fuckin' road. What an arse! So when he looked around the stop after his lady love had departed, I made sure I gave him a glare of dissaproval, after which he went red like a dumb tomato, the shamed asshole. I seriously believe that's when he came back to earth.
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(First-person - actor)
At times when one's life store becomes tangled, causing the brow to develop furrows and the soul to ask itself "Now what?" , it is always a comfort to fall in love at fate's disposal. It tunes up the system and imparts to the countenance a gentle glow. There is nothing, of course, to be said against love at first sight, but if one is going to indulge in it - it is as well that the object of one's devotion not disregard and walk away and fail to acknowledge one's passion. Needless to say, it imparts heartache to the enamoured.
Now the lady I fell in love with did just that. She created the illusion of all arms around me and then knocked me cold when she snapped and vamoosed. The wind was left staring in my face and I began to feel slightly untoward and bare - like a man in his underclothes. It is not proper sentiment, I assure you to become increasingly aware of your solitary presence at a nondescript bus-stand where stout middle-aged individuals with bald heads glare at you like searchlights after they've seen you have a romantic interlude with a chance encounter. They feel that like all of today's corrupted youth, you are too to be profoundly distrusted and applied to moral scrutiny. When one is susceptible to those standing and eyeing one with the cold intentness of knights and warriors, one cannot help but go red in the face and feel like an abandoned watermelon in underclothes. One can then choose to forget about tracing the whereabouts of one's vamoosed love. Private detectives and bloodhounds come in high these days anyhow.