Almost-bare bottoms on piss-stained bus seats because our woollen skirts are scratchy. Your mum took your hem down so now you wear it rolled at the waist. Sausage-lined waist but at least your legs look good.
You ask, who’s home? And I tell you no one.
Your smile says great and your hand grabs mine and for a moment I don’t care about the armpits from the boys’ school blocking the open windows.
We’re here.
The bus dings and the doors open and whilst you get off in front of me I hitch my skirt as high as it’ll go.