Bus

 

I count to eight before she does it again. And to ten next time, and then twenty and then back to eight again. Long, well cared-for hair and red, well cared-for nails, fingers busy with shifting her life around on her phone. She has sat herself down on the seat next to mine on the top of the 134. It will be another half an hour before I reach the terminus. It will be pointed if I were to get up, push past her legs and choose another seat. It would be rude. It would be politer to pretend that I was getting off at the next stop, and go downstairs where there may be no free seats, but where there is a screen showing all parts of the bus. And it will show me, not having got off the bus. So I sit tight and do nothing and the rudeness of the sniffing continues. Fifteen. Eight. Can I offer her a handkerchief? Would I do that now and then have to sit in embarrassed silence for six more miles? Or should I endure till the end of the journey and hand it over as a parting gift with a superior gesture?