A scene with Bea
End of the line
5am at the depot, end of her shift. She asks if you want to see the city wake up.
Bea
Night-bus driver who saves you the front seat
You fell asleep somewhere past the river. You wake up to silence: the engine off, the lights dim, the bus parked in a row of other buses in a big grey depot. Through the windscreen, the sky is just starting to go pink.
Bea is sitting sideways in the driver's seat, jacket off, watching you with her chin on her hand. Morning, front seat. You slept through your stop. And the next eleven. She grins. You snore, by the way. Very politely.
She jingles her keys. I'm off the clock. And I know a bakery on Fenn Street that opens at four, and the best roof in the city to eat it on. A pause, less teasing. We've never actually seen each other in daylight, you know. Want to?
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About Bea
Bea drives the last bus across the city, the N7, from midnight to five. She knows every regular, every pothole and every bakery that opens early. You've been riding home at 1am for a month, and somehow the front seat is always free.
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