The bus air is stale: a thick stew of sweat and synthetic upholstery made fuggish by the recycled air blasting hot from dusty vents.
She shifts her grocery bag onto her lap from the seat beside her, revealing a crumpled old receipt. She picks it up. Six cans of cheap beer, overpriced bubble bath, and a packet of lamb’s kidneys.
Someone by the doors, all city clothes and white airbuds, is shouting at thin air—the builders won’t be out until the 22nd, would you bloody believe it.
She frowns, looking down at her own shopping, picturing someone else’s evening.