over the hills and thunder rumbles across us.
I pick up my bike from where I left it near the fence and a warm heavy drop of rain lands in my hair.
âAny second now,â Tanika says. âWeâre going to cop a pounding.â
âNot a lot we can do about it.â
âI reckon, in the circumstances, I could probably give you a lift home. You and your bike, in the bus. I think thatâd be okay. You know, Samaritan. It wouldnât be safe for you out there.â
âYou sure?â
Rain slaps down onto the concrete, each drop practically a handful at a time. Just a few so far, but plenty more to come.
âYeah, Iâm sure. So come on.â
I follow her to the bus and the bike tyres bounce as they hit the steps on the way in. Rain lands on the roof, lumps of it, more than before but still not yet the real thing.
Tanika stands there next to the driverâs seat, leaningon the steering wheel as I lead the bike past, and she says, âFather Steele and my mother both talked to Dad.â
âYeah?â
âAnd itâs not like itâs all fixed, or anything, but I told them about my feelings. So, weâll see. Anyway, Dad reckons heâs been not quite right about you. The family-man side of him got the better of the rest of him for a while there. He figures youâre a good bloke who just succumbed to lust before heâd really had the chance to think it through. Heâs wrong of course. You succumbed to me. But thatâs their problem, the stupid way they think of things. I thought it was a top night that night, and I couldnât give a rats about the nativity play, if truth be told.â
âI was kind of over it myself. Steelo does it the same way every year. I know you canât change the story, since itâs the birth of Jesus, but he doesnât leave much room for interpretation. And, if weâre being honest, I wouldnât have been up for it this time around if I hadnât heard you were lining up for one of the other Magus spots.â
âGood,â she says, and the rain comes down harder. âBetter drive this thing, I guess.â
âYeah.â
âHey, Iâm the bus driver, so I make the rules, right?â
âSure. The driverâs ultimately responsible forwhatever happens on board. But the usual rule is just sit down and shut up, in the interests of safety. A bit more imagination wouldnât go astray.â
âExactly. Well, my rule is you should kiss me now. Or this bus isnât going anywhere, pal.â
âAll right, thatâs probably fair. Harsh but fair, and who am I to question the bus driver? But I thought it was just a Samaritan act, you driving me home.â
âNo one in the Bible kissed like the Samaritans, they reckon. They were just careful about it. Kept it to themselves and didnât push it too far before the time was right. So when they wrote the Samaritan story, they just looked like a bunch of people whoâd go out of their way to help an old guy when he was down.â
She lets go of the steering wheel. Car headlights through the windscreen light up her face, streaky with the rain on the glass.
Itâs dark again when my hand reaches her arm, when my arms move around her, when my mouth finds her mouth for the first time in weeks, here in the stale warm summer air in this unlit bus with my bike squished between us as the edge of the storm is replaced by the worst of it, clattering down on the roof so nothing else can be heard. No cars, not the change in my breathing, not the quiet thing Tanika says to me when the kiss comes to its end.
I take the seat right behind her, the seat thatâs usuallyhers, and I put my hands on her shoulders for a second. Itâs as if Joe Bell could turn up now, or Father Steele, and any time I touch her could be the last, so I donât want to stop just yet.
She flicks the indicator on, and she drives.
I watch the road ahead
I pick up my bike from where I left it near the fence and a warm heavy drop of rain lands in my hair.
âAny second now,â Tanika says. âWeâre going to cop a pounding.â
âNot a lot we can do about it.â
âI reckon, in the circumstances, I could probably give you a lift home. You and your bike, in the bus. I think thatâd be okay. You know, Samaritan. It wouldnât be safe for you out there.â
âYou sure?â
Rain slaps down onto the concrete, each drop practically a handful at a time. Just a few so far, but plenty more to come.
âYeah, Iâm sure. So come on.â
I follow her to the bus and the bike tyres bounce as they hit the steps on the way in. Rain lands on the roof, lumps of it, more than before but still not yet the real thing.
Tanika stands there next to the driverâs seat, leaningon the steering wheel as I lead the bike past, and she says, âFather Steele and my mother both talked to Dad.â
âYeah?â
âAnd itâs not like itâs all fixed, or anything, but I told them about my feelings. So, weâll see. Anyway, Dad reckons heâs been not quite right about you. The family-man side of him got the better of the rest of him for a while there. He figures youâre a good bloke who just succumbed to lust before heâd really had the chance to think it through. Heâs wrong of course. You succumbed to me. But thatâs their problem, the stupid way they think of things. I thought it was a top night that night, and I couldnât give a rats about the nativity play, if truth be told.â
âI was kind of over it myself. Steelo does it the same way every year. I know you canât change the story, since itâs the birth of Jesus, but he doesnât leave much room for interpretation. And, if weâre being honest, I wouldnât have been up for it this time around if I hadnât heard you were lining up for one of the other Magus spots.â
âGood,â she says, and the rain comes down harder. âBetter drive this thing, I guess.â
âYeah.â
âHey, Iâm the bus driver, so I make the rules, right?â
âSure. The driverâs ultimately responsible forwhatever happens on board. But the usual rule is just sit down and shut up, in the interests of safety. A bit more imagination wouldnât go astray.â
âExactly. Well, my rule is you should kiss me now. Or this bus isnât going anywhere, pal.â
âAll right, thatâs probably fair. Harsh but fair, and who am I to question the bus driver? But I thought it was just a Samaritan act, you driving me home.â
âNo one in the Bible kissed like the Samaritans, they reckon. They were just careful about it. Kept it to themselves and didnât push it too far before the time was right. So when they wrote the Samaritan story, they just looked like a bunch of people whoâd go out of their way to help an old guy when he was down.â
She lets go of the steering wheel. Car headlights through the windscreen light up her face, streaky with the rain on the glass.
Itâs dark again when my hand reaches her arm, when my arms move around her, when my mouth finds her mouth for the first time in weeks, here in the stale warm summer air in this unlit bus with my bike squished between us as the edge of the storm is replaced by the worst of it, clattering down on the roof so nothing else can be heard. No cars, not the change in my breathing, not the quiet thing Tanika says to me when the kiss comes to its end.
I take the seat right behind her, the seat thatâs usuallyhers, and I put my hands on her shoulders for a second. Itâs as if Joe Bell could turn up now, or Father Steele, and any time I touch her could be the last, so I donât want to stop just yet.
She flicks the indicator on, and she drives.
I watch the road ahead
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