The air-con is arctic and we have no sweaters. It does sound like frozen peas; will the roof hold? The thought makes me hungry. Why's the bus still stuck on the road? The tinted glass fogs up in patches. No sun to protect us from now. We're both staring at streaks of water fondling the glass. I whisper into your ear. Isn't it strange that the tiny droplets stuck on the windowpane don't really move, even when the bus rumbles and jolts? You reply, maybe they're too small to have their own weight pull them free. Except when the bigger raindrops falling at the top gather these droplets, zigzagging, swerving, growing, until they burst with fullness and rush down the window in a stream. Your face is turned to the window. You don't say a word, but your right hand crosses over to my right shoulder without me noticing it, like a spider. I didn't know daddy longlegs were hot-blooded. Somewhere distant a whip cracks and the angry old man above growls. We are undeterred.