Martì – the sound of his name – begged her, “Why go through this all the time?” “Not all the time. Now!” “On the bus?” A lady, another, who had marched into the vehicle earlier enquiring whether there was a strike on? – calmly, evidently her day wasn’t going to be affected – was now sitting in the front twiching her middle-class derrière, as in “Plebs! Washing dirty linen in public!” her eyes static, though, on one word of the Eat-Pray-Love in her hands. Martì got up, his friend too. “We’ll sell the …” too low to be heard, over the announcement of the next stop. “Over my dead body!” Now on the sidewalk, gesticulating. A guy, another, in the back, smiled at the early spring the city was enjoying, opened a window and got a few more words from the pair. (reconstructed) “… [won’t be] so bad.” And he heaved a sigh of relief. He seemed to care.