I repel the stares in this notebook with an ugly illegible handwriting.
I am inside the bus. As usual, cramped as if we’re off to Auschwitz in corporate attire.
I think I sat beside this man before. He is married, evidenced by the ring. Corpulent build, in a loose blue water-repellant jacket with earphones stuck in his ears.
The conductor, he delegated the tickets. Instead of receiving one P11-ticket, he gave me three. He assumed my impeccable bus-riding knowledge because
(1) pinangunahan ko siyang wala akong P1 coin,
(2) I folded the P20 bill vertically for ease of collection, and
(3) absence of destination statement, since it is assumed that if you do not express any point of destination whilst giving bus fee, you are going down at Ayala, pegging your payment at P11.
I am the bus master overthinker.