Martì – the sound of his name – begged her, “Why go through this all the time?” “Not all the time. Now.” “On the bus?” The 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 by it – now was sitting in the front and her ass moved, middle-class, 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 far to be heard, over the voice announcing 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.” A sigh of relief he heaved. He seemed to care.


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