We sit together in rigid seats, backs slumped, resting on each other’s spines for support. My leg across yours; my fat thigh spreading outwards, your hand on my nylon tights. We watch every single person who came up the stairs, neither of us mentions anything.
On the bus to Streatham Hill. Destination: Telford Avenue. Destination: Somewhere. Destination: I forget now.
Playing thumb wars with no space to manoeuvre, our grubby thumbs in a spiral, caressing the pads of our fingers, trying to squish the other’s appendages. Sometimes you win, most of the time, I win. I flatten your thumb under mine until it turns a yellowish white. You give in, mostly, and deny that I beat you.
I forget that it’s a someone driving us where we are going, caged in behind thick Plexiglas yet so excited to see a familiar face. Once, when we were alone on the night bus, the voice spoke to us through his speakers, started a conversation about its favourite route, it’s favourite bus, it’s favourite wife. We spoke back to it; answered its questions when it asked us, apologised when we spoke over it. We both knew he couldn’t hear us, but that’s the thing with lonely people – they never do.
Somehow, we are in the station. Thick, sighing buses lined up like a conga, and the voices are now the men and women, wearily plodding down from their Plexiglas cages. The hiss of the doors on hydraulics as they open, the hiss of the doors on hydraulics as they close. The lights go off, and we are on the back seat.
The first thing to do, you say, is hide. You let your legs slide beneath the seat in front, and disappear downwards. You remind me of a razor clam; spending hours poking them in the supermarket until their glossy tongues retreated into their hideaway. I think I killed one once.
I do the same, and we are all shoulders, all double chins, folded up underneath the bus seats, dangerously close to chewing gum and empty bottles of Fanta.
I’m unnerved, because I know that if you wanted to, you could fall asleep, and we’d be trapped in the bus all night. I would not sleep; too antsy to move in case my hair caught in dirt, too awake to sleep because we are in fact, trapped on an empty bus.
Do you think they know? You ask, and I say: Why would they?
You shrug, as much as you can lying flat beneath the seats. I do the same. They are the men and women in fleece vests. They are the men and women who spoke to us through the megaphone. They are the men and women who forgot they had passengers. They are the men and women, who probably didn’t.
I don’t remember if we moved or not, now. Did we stay there all night? Destination: Telford Avenue. Destination: Somewhere. Destination: I forget, now.