Bus along Woodlands Avenue 7
The upper deck of a double-decker is my unofficial reading room. Avenue 7 unrolls with shop houses, schools, trees trimmed into obedience, and sky wide enough to forgive the humidity.
Schoolchildren board in clusters that dissolve by the third stop. Office workers appear mid-route as if summoned. The bus breathes in and out at every red light.
I prefer the front row when it is free — not for thrill, for sightlines. You see turns early; the city reveals its geometry.
An auntie offers a seat though I am not old enough to merit it. I accept because refusing kindness is its own kind of noise.
At my stop I descend into heat and petrol smell. The note is already written by then; I only transfer it to tape at home.