Move the Hell Over, Sharon

7.30am. I get out my spotty umbrella and walk to the Lansdowne Street tram stop. (I once had a black umbrella which Sam borrowed when his broke and then he broke mine. He replaced it with a poka dot umbrella and looked completely unconvinced when I complained about the replacement) I catch a tram on the corner of Victoria Parade because of the rain. I don’t want to be saturated by the time I get to work. It is one of those drizzling humid mornings.

Some little rat-faced bitch millennial was sitting with her bag next to her on the seat next to the wall. I thought she’d move the bag when I sat down, but she didn’t. She just went on sitting there with her foot on the opposite seat typing away furiously on her phone.

“Move the hell over, Sharon,” I want to say but, of course, I don’t say that. I wonder what she would have done, if I had. I chuckle to myself, as I plot her death for not moving over.

But she got off not long after, so what did I care really.

There were a couple of saturated office boys jogging in Collins Street in their shorts and singlets. Red and blue, stuck to their glistening, wet muscles. I saw them further back down Collins Street and they passed me just before I got to my building. One blonde, in the red singled, and one with dark hair in the blue singlet.