Drip-drop onto the bath mat.
With her fingertips she smears the steamy mirror to reveal dark under-eyes and inky eyelashes. She rolls her eyes. Not again.
She tiptoes along the cold wooden floor to the warmth of her bedroom, the carpet soft between her toes. She unlocks her phone and makes a note to pick up makeup remover, as she separates her sticky lashes with her fingers.
The following morning, she walks to her new local coffee shop that she spotted on the day of the move. …
“We will now dim the lights for any passengers that want to sleep.”
So, what the driver is strategically saying is that anyone who is currently reading or planning on doing so has to decide whether to be considerate and respect his decision or inconsiderate and switch the beaming reading light on.
Be an arsehole or not be an arsehole.
Greyhound buses do have a high crime rate, perhaps keeping the peace, at least for now, is wise. Temporarily-not-be-an-arsehole, it is.
My book was my distraction and I don’t have a back up. What to do now? How does one entertain oneself on a night bus with minimal artificial light? …
I head for the usual spot on the platform. It’s raining. Umbrellas are clashing and sighs are imminent. There’s nothing more British or required than a passive aggressive tut to really kick start the day. The usual crowd are gathered. Dozens of pairs of soggy feet watching the train pull in. There’s that one commuter I see every day who always gets here first and always gets the good seat. The Best Seat. Look at him! So smug. One day I’ll get there first and really ruin his day. He smiles at me, I smile back. I’m so two-faced.
Boots are slipping on the floor and drops of water from the umbrella in the luggage rack above are landing on my knee. …