Bop, bop, bop, the leather mittens resting lightly on the steering wheel, our reflections bouncing off the night washed windscreen. Bop, bop, bop, he turned around to look at us, her eyes leaving the road for an unnervingly long time. Bop, bop, bippity, bop. « Collomb used to take this bus » her eyes lit up. I noticed the light blue baseball stitching on her gloves. A punk in a pressed shirt. She chatted affably on, bouncing gently on her sprung seat. The empty bus resonated to her chirpy voice. I sat down and let it wash over me. Happy.