Groups of three spin into alleys and side streets, some climb wiry catwalks and vanish into the ceiling of fog. With their smell still thriving in my ...ostrils (gourmet coffee, crisp newsprint, and pine-scented shoe-polish) I wonder what thoughts infest their minds. Their scheme escapes me, like a theme lost among colliding metaphors. My mind conjures theories involving the passengers and I write them on a napkin. Perhaps a crime spree where the perpetrator is released due to doubtful. Yeah it was fun, some girl was talking to me in Math, and she seemed nice I say turning round to turn the radio on Yeah shes nice, Lucy, pretty girl I think she likes you, I say smiling she knows you been looking after me and asked about you Shes lovely but shes not my type Laughing I accidently spit my sprite all over myself Ben your fourteen you dont have a type Laughing at the mess I made he hands me a tissue I do too, shes beautiful and blonde, she has the most beautiful blue eyes. Her. More

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