Commuting

I spin around the corner and see the bus-stop seat with its chunky concrete legs, its horizontal two-by-fours and its thick mission brown paintwork, and I feel my shoulders slump like the flimsy spines it is contoured for. It's made for four people but only ever used by two, of which I am now one.

My book rests back by the bedside so I prop my elbows on my knees and swing the laptop back and forth. Occasionally I look up for the punctual receptionist across the road - the unknowing harbinger of the 7-2-3 to the C-B-D. And there she is, out and dusting the mat and making it square with the door and standing back to nod in satisfaction. She's still nodding when I am flushed by a rude cloud of exhaust and the squealing bus wipes the scene.

A wiry little business lady jumps in first. It's a jungle dawn. I fumble for coins and when my turn comes I say "Just to the city please" as cheery as possible to endear myself to the driver. He plants it when I take the ticket and I am whirled down the aisle. No-one laughs at my slapstick entry, or even looks up. I'd be smirking at least.

I take the last seat, beside a skinny schoolboy, maybe a year seven or eight. He's reading a book so I read it too until he notices, then I look around the bus wide-eyed like it's all foreign and fascinating. But all I can see are dark-haired skulls and i-pods and briefcases, and those things gets me down and my weak, silly smile
starts to drop.

At the next stop, as the pilgrims push down the aisle next to me, I look out past the boy and see a cyclist struggling by, up the hill and out of the saddle, his gullet opened out and rhythmically stripping oxygen from the dull metropolitan air. The demands of his blood are met. His machine quality is enviably human. I am inspired to draw a deep breath - how long since my last? - but my blood is lazy. I imagine it is thick and dark.

I straighten up again and there is a middle-aged lady's arse next to my face. It is pleasant enough in form but such is its proximity that by the next stop I am beginning to resent its presence. Nevertheless, and in the absence of other options, I begin to study it more closely.

Ten minutes later, just as the arse is dissociating from its lady owner and taking on new absurdity as a free-standing entity, I feel a nudge from the schoolboy and he flicks his head to suggest that I move. He's getting out. I peer from him to the arse and back again. I flick my head towards it and raise my eyebrows in enquiry. The boy shakes his head quickly; I shake mine back, extra slow in mock disappointment.

I lift my hand and drift it towards the arse, gradually extending my index finger. I am looking at the boy, who is frozen with anticipation as I make to touch the cheek. But I change tack late and tap her on the jutting hip.

"Excuse me miss", I say, all business-like.

I get out too, though it's a stop before my usual. The boy and I share a shy laugh on the outside and I wish him a good day at school. He stamps off with his enormous backpack and I mosey away to work, sucking in the air.

God bless those tiny human moments - the eyes meeting like eyes - that make public transport bearable.