Nashelle is waiting for the bus. She is going to work. A thin lad joins her at the bus stop. He has a carrier bag full of cans of Strongbow cider. He smiles. He has a pleasant face and Nashelle thinks she knows his sister. Another lad lumbers toward the stop. He is overweight with a doughy face and has a carrier bag full of lager and is drinking a can of Strongbow. Nashelle wonders if he is the brother of a chef she used to work with.
The two lads talk about alcohol. Then Doughboy makes a call on his mobile. He talks loudly to a female. ‘I could only get Fosters,’ he tells her. ‘She’ll have to be happy about it,’ he says to Thinboy. Nashelle wonders what kind of girl would go out with that kind of boy.
Dough-boy drains his can and throws it in the bushes.
‘He’s a proper litter lout,’ Thin-boy says. He seems embarrassed. Nashelle wonders if he really did say this or if she has read his mind. She thinks Thin-boy is probably intelligent and wonders why he is wasting his life on booze. She is disgusted with Doughboy and has to stop herself from telling him how bad it is to throw cans in bushes, that little creatures can crawl in them and get trapped, and why didn’t he put it in his pocket until he finds a bin? Nashelle is not pleased to have spent the last ten minutes in the company of piss-heads.
Thinboy and his mate walk away from the bus stop. They look up and down the street, scuff the curb and chat about nonsense. Nashelle looks in the opposite direction and thinks how nice it would be to have her own car and drive to work and not have to come into contact with people like this.
‘Hey, love, the bus is coming.’
Nashelle looks up.
`Doughboy is calling to her. The bus is coming down the hill. Nashelle jumps up from the seat. She hadn’t realised she was lost in thought. Oh god, she might have missed the bus; she would have had to wait for the next one and would have been late for work. She looks at Doughboy lugging his bag of Fosters. ‘Thank you,’ she says.
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