The bus

[Youngbritishbitch]

Jenny always sat on the left side of the bus, three rows from the back.

She wasn't sure when that had become her seat, only that it had. There was a comfort in it--the faintly scratched window, the way the morning light angled in just enough to warm her hands but not her face, the familiar hum of the engine vibrating through the thin fabric of the seat. Thirty minutes, door to door. Long enough to get bored. Too short to do anything meaningful.

That was why she played the games.

At twenty-four, Jenny felt like she existed in a strange in-between--old enough to be tired all the time, young enough to resent it. Working at the hospital didn't help. Early shifts, late shifts, the constant background noise of urgency. Even on her days off, she sometimes woke up expecting alarms, expecting someone to need something from her.

The bus, ironically, was the only place no one did.

So she filled it.

Monday had been Guess the Job. She'd gotten quite good at that--spotting the scuffed shoes of teachers, the polished-but-not-expensive suits of junior office workers, the very specific brand of exhaustion that screamed hospitality.

Tuesday had been Snog, Marry, Avoid. A classic. Slightly childish, but it passed the time.

Today, though... today felt different.

It had started the night before. Jenny had half-watched reality TV while eating pasta straight from the pan, the glow of the screen reflecting off her kitchen tiles. There'd been shouting--raised voices, sharp gestures, two girls inches from each other's faces, the kind of argument that wasn't really about what it was about.

It had been ridiculous.

It had been fascinating.

And somewhere between the third forkful and the dramatic cut to adverts, the idea had formed.

Now, as the bus hissed to a stop and a fresh wave of passengers climbed aboard, Jenny tucked her chin into her scarf and smiled to herself.

Today's game didn't have a name.

But it had rules.

She would pick someone--always a girl, roughly her age--and build a fight around her. Not just the fight itself, but everything: the setting, the reason, the outfits. The tone. The escalation.

And most importantly--

Would Jenny win?

The bus jolted forward again, and she scanned her surroundings.

Candidate number one appeared almost immediately.

Two seats ahead, across the aisle.

Blonde. Not natural blonde--too even, too glossy--but well-maintained. Hair curled in loose waves that had probably taken time that morning. She wore a long beige coat, open despite the chill, revealing a fitted black top and high-waisted trousers. Gold hoops. Sharp eyeliner. Phone in hand, thumb moving quickly.

Confident.

Jenny leaned back slightly, narrowing her eyes.

Alright.

Let's see.

--

The fight begins in a bar.

Not a dive, not somewhere sticky or chaotic. Somewhere trendy. Low lighting, exposed brick walls, cocktails with names that don't quite make sense. The kind of place where people pretend not to care who's looking at them.

Jenny is there with friends--she doesn't bother imagining their faces, just their presence, the laughter, the hum of conversation.

Blonde Girl is at the bar.

Of course she is.

She's ordering something complicated. Something with a twist of orange peel and a sprig of something green. She's not loud, but she doesn't need to be. The bartender leans in when she speaks.

Jenny approaches.

Not aggressively. Not yet.

There's a bump--shoulder to shoulder. Not entirely accidental.

Blonde Girl turns.

"Sorry," she says, but it's the kind of sorry that isn't.

Jenny tilts her head. "It's fine."

But it isn't, is it?

Something lingers. A look. A flicker of recognition where there should be none.

Blonde Girl glances her up and down. Not dramatically. Just enough.

Jenny feels it like a spark.

"Do you mind?" Blonde Girl says, gesturing vaguely to the space Jenny is occupying.

There's plenty of room.

Jenny smiles.

"Do you?"

That's how it starts.

--

The bus swayed slightly as it turned a corner, pulling Jenny back into the present.

Blonde Girl--real Blonde Girl--was now scrolling through something, her expression neutral. No hint of the sharp-edged persona Jenny had assigned her.

Jenny considered her.

Physicality.

Blonde Girl looked like she worked out. Not bulky, not overly toned, but deliberate. Pilates, maybe. Spin classes. The kind of strength that came from consistency.

Jenny, on the other hand, was... functional. She was on her feet all day at the hospital, lifting, moving, rushing. Not elegant strength. Not curated.

But real.

Jenny nodded to herself.

Interesting.

--

Back to the bar.

The tension builds quickly.

Blonde Girl's friend arrives--a brunette, equally polished, immediately on her side. There's whispering. Glances. The social mechanics of exclusion.

Jenny's friends are slower to catch on. One of them laughs at the wrong moment. Another tries to diffuse it.

But Jenny doesn't want it diffused.

"Is there a problem?" Blonde Girl asks.

Her voice is calm. That's the thing. Calm in a way that suggests she thinks she's already won.

Jenny shrugs. "You tell me."

A pause...

Then--

"You bumped into me."

"You were in the way."

"I was at the bar."

"So was I."

The bartender pretends not to hear.

Around them, people start to notice.

The energy shifts.

This isn't a screaming match. Not yet. This is the dangerous part--the quiet escalation, the testing of boundaries.

Blonde Girl steps closer.

She smells expensive.

"You don't need to be rude," she says.

Jenny lets out a small laugh. "And you don't need to be... whatever this is."

A flicker.

There it is.

The first crack.

--

The bus stopped again.

More people got on, filling the aisle, bringing with them the cold air of the morning and the low murmur of conversations. Jenny barely noticed. She was deep in it now.

Blonde Girl crossed her legs, adjusting her coat slightly.

Jenny watched the movement.

Footwear: ankle boots. Heeled, but practical. Not made for running. Not made for instability.

Good to know.

--

The argument tips.

It's never one big moment. It's a series of small ones, stacked on top of each other until something gives.

Blonde Girl says something about "people like you."

Jenny doesn't even fully process what it means, only that it lands wrong.

"What's that supposed to mean?" she asks.

Blonde Girl shrugs, but there's a smile playing at the corner of her mouth. "Take it however you want."

Jenny steps closer.

Now they're within reach.

"You don't get to say something like that and then pretend you didn't," Jenny says.

Blonde Girl's friend tries to intervene. "Okay, this is getting a bit--"

"Stay out of it," Jenny snaps, not even looking at her.

Blonde Girl's eyes narrow.

"Oh, you're one of those," she says.

"One of what?"

"Always looking for a fight."

Jenny smiles again, but it's different this time. Sharper.

"No," she says. "Just not afraid of one."

And that's it.

That's the point of no return.

--

Jenny shifted in her seat, feeling the bus hit a stretch of uneven road.

Would she win?

She hadn't decided yet.

She never decided too early. That was part of the game.

You had to build it properly.

--

The first physical contact is small.

A hand brushing another hand.

A push that could be accidental.

But it isn't.

Blonde Girl puts her hand on Jenny's shoulder, as if to move her aside.

Jenny reacts instantly--grabbing her wrist, not hard, but firm enough to make a point.

"Don't," she says.

Everything freezes for a second.

Then Blonde Girl pulls back.

Not retreating.

Resetting.

"Oh, you really want to do this?" she says.

Jenny doesn't answer.

She doesn't need to.

--

Back on the bus, Blonde Girl stood up.

Her stop.

Jenny felt a small, irrational flicker of disappointment.

She watched as the girl moved down the aisle, steady despite the motion of the bus, one hand lightly gripping the pole.

Composed.

Always composed.

The doors opened. Cold air rushed in.

Blonde Girl stepped off without looking back.

Jenny followed her with her eyes until the bus pulled away.

Then she leaned back in her seat.

Verdict?

She considered everything.

The setting. The build. The body language. The footwear. The attitude.

Blonde Girl had confidence. Social dominance. The ability to control a room.

But Jenny had something else.

Endurance.

Practical strength.

And, perhaps most importantly--

She didn't mind getting messy.

Jenny smiled to herself.

Yeah.

She'd win.

Not cleanly. Not elegantly.

But she'd win.

--

She exhaled, letting the scenario dissolve.

One down.

Plenty more to go.

As the bus rolled on, Jenny turned her attention to the window.

Outside, the city moved in fragments--people crossing streets, waiting at lights, walking alone or in pairs. Each one a potential story. A potential opponent.

Her eyes landed on someone almost immediately.

Dark hair this time. Walking quickly, headphones in, oversized hoodie and bike shorts despite the cold. A takeaway coffee in one hand, phone in the other.

Different energy.

Less polished.

More unpredictable.

Jenny tilted her head slightly, already feeling the pieces click into place.

Alright.

Let's see.

Where would this one start?

[MikeHales67]

  Nice story.
Though you missed a chance to do the real over the top, knock down drag 'em out fight that she might have fantasised about.

[Youngbritishbitch]

[/quote]

Nice story.
Though you missed a chance to do the real over the top, knock down drag 'em out fight that she might have fantasised about.

Yeah i stopped here deliberately because I could have had 6 different fights and still someone could say "oh you could have had her imagine this type of fight." The reader can now imagine what other scenarios she may imagine and to me that is more intriguing than just another story with another description of another brutal brawl or whatever.

[Guy Incognito]

Another certified Youngbritishbitch banger! I love this concept! Like you say, there are endless possibilities for imagining other stories that Jenny might cook up with other passengers. And who knows, maybe one day she'll find out whether or not she could actually take on the person she's sizing up...

[Guy Incognito]