Adventure, she said.

She stumbled until she was four inches from my face, broke out into a wide-mouthed grin that made her eyes light up like fireworks and cheekily said: “Adventure.”

It was a rainy Tuesday morning in July – the kind that feels and looks like a rainy Tuesday morning in November, but no one says that because the only thing keeping summer here is the fact that we aren’t saying it isn’t, like fearful worshippers of a very elusive sun.

The bus, therefore, was packed full of kids and tourists and professionals and then, at her stop, people leaving the cancer-wing at the hospital.

We were dancing that awkward dance of making sure we were all sitting or standing in the right spot; older people and pregnant women at the front, kids a little further back and selfless uber-fit pioneers of valour upstairs.

I was at the very back of the bus; that seat where only the aisle is in front of you, and you feel both very far away from the world and also as though, at each halt of the bus, you may go flying through the windscreen. I like to live on the edge.

She got on last. By the time she had joined the awkward sitting dance, the only downstairs seat available was next to me, in the back of the bus. She slowly made her way down through shaking and jolting, passed tall shoulders and holiday backpacks, gripping each pole as she shuffled by. It didn’t look easy. It looked hard. She looked down the whole way.

Read the rest of my post over on threads.

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