Desolation Row

The six-year-old and I take a seat on the bus.

Beneath our feet is a discarded kebab box. The six-year-old sighs and kicks it into the next row.

“Who does that help?” I ask, disappointed.

“Whatever,” she says.

An old man takes a seat. He sighs and kicks the kebab box into the next row.

A young woman takes a seat. She sighs and kicks the kebab box into the next row.

A teenager takes a seat. He sighs and kicks the kebab box into the next row.

This pattern continues, until the kebab box has made its way to the front of the bus.

The six-year-old and I disembark.

As the bus pulls away, the kebab box zings through the air and lands at the six-year-old’s feet.

She stands in shock, her kebab juice glazed pumps sparkling in the sun.

“Whatever,” I say.

The Male Nanny