There’s a night bus couple sitting behind you. A man and a woman, at least judging by their voices, both archetypes of man tone and woman tone.
You can’t help but hear their conversation. They’re not keeping their voices down. What they’re saying doesn’t interest you until the man’s voice says, ‘Why are you always like this?’
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Last night winter pressed us onto the night bus. It wasn’t much warmer on board. We took up the back rows of the top deck, pretty much the only people up there. Frosted fingers of February air poked us in the ribs. Sophie’s toes were numb. Lisa slapped her hands together and breathed aggressive blasts of body heat into her gloved fists. Walker put his arms around Kerry and rubbed his hands on her shoulders. Their puffa jackets got crushed together. Hughsie flicked his lighter on and off. It wasn’t effective in warming him or any of the rest of us, but it looked good. Shell and a couple of the others had kebab remains in paper with them. The cold got to the food before we did. The smell of the strips of meat filled the top deck, making unsubstantiated promises of hunger sated, inner warmth attained.
