The things you see from the top of a bus…
the inevitable single shoe on a bus-shelter roof.
Someone naked in an uncurtained bedroom at midday – a nightworker? Or an illicit daytime assignation…?
The man urinating behind a tree in the park, then glancing up at the passing bus before raising two fingers and casually adjusting himself.
The local weirdo plonks himself beside you, all wild hair, dirty fingernails, reeking of whisky… and tomcats.
You rise, push past him, ignoring the pressure of his hand against your backside.
The car will be ready tomorrow, the mechanic promised.
It had better be.
As usual, not having participated for some weeks, I find WordPress has incorporated another batch of unfathomable changes. I navigated the hurdles, I’m here. Hopefully I’ll remember how to load up the link. (Thanks to Rochelle for her continued leadership of Friday Fictioneers.