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On the Bus Home

I am on the bus. The portly bus driver wears a Nike beanie and ray-bans. He is surly and handles the bus as if it were nimble like a sports car. A girl from a nearby polytechnic got on the bus. She is slim and has a slight girlish bounce to her step. She takes the seat before me.

The bus overshoots a stop and grinds to a halt ten meters past an incredulous old man in sunglasses. He runs to the bus, remarkably agile and quick for a whitehead. As he climbs into the bus, the driver looks down at him from the tip of his nose. Looking like the lord of all in his domain giving benediction to his ardent pursuer. The old man pays tribute with tinkling coins. The bus driver approves of the tribute even though he doesn’t show it.

The girl is sending a sms about the bus driver and the old man. I steal a glance and it dismissively describes the old man’s bus pursuit. She laughs inwardly at the whole incident.

High noon sun burns my skin though the windows and I turn my attention outwards to the road flashing beside me.

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