Waiting At The Bus Stop

Flicking fingers at the proffered cigarette, flipping it lipwards, a thought tips awake: taking it was a mistake.

The hand stays steady that shields the fluttering flame; nevertheless the small current of something supressed edges ever so carefully out of the voice that says Didn’t the last bus home leave here an hour ago?

Acting dumb and mumbling Has it? Guess I’m in trouble then. Shrugging shoulders nonchalantly, sucking in hard then suddenly collapsing into a lapse of coughing.

Not much of a smoker, are you? The sarcastic sneer is followed by a leer with the  question  Need a lift?

Inside, silent and belted beside the driver, neck hairs sensing the rising tension, the growing menace of imminent, ominous arrival. Suddenly the car's squealing to a stop at the side of the road. Reaching for the handle and feeling the steely grip to the shoulder that's holding on hard, still somehow slipping beneath, through a gap, getting safely onto the street.

Shouting out Thanks dad! in a dash for the door, before the inevitable downpour.