“I’ve never seen a ticket inspector on this route,” says Bae.
”Neither have I,” you say.
She smiles. “Are you feeling lucky, punk?”
”Punk? Like Sex Pistols.” You see yourself reflected in the bus windows. Plain white shirt, black trousers, hair combed into a parting.
”It’s a quotation,” she says, “Dirty Harry. Come on! This is our stop!”
You and Bae alight at the High Street. (goto 38)