The last seat

1The minibus to the estate was already a metal box of damp coats when I climbed in. One seat remained, beside a man whose grocery bag leaked a slow crescent of water onto the floor. He moved the bag an inch, which in that space counted as welcome.

2We did not speak. The driver took the roundabout as if it owed him money. Neon from the wet road slid up the window and across the man’s knuckles. He was holding a small pot of white flowers, the kind sold outside the MTR for no particular festival, only because the seller was still there.

3At the stop before mine he stood, then sat again, then stood. The flowers trembled. I realised he was waiting for me to get off first so that he would not have to squeeze past with the pot. I got off a stop early. The night air felt newly washed. Behind me the bell rang, and the box of coats went on without my weight.