Malc sat sipping his three-sugar tea, telling his friends and a few hangers-on while not quite believing it had happened. It wasn’t unusual for someone to make that kind of gesture – Malc was, after all, a driver of buses, and not a particularly courteous one – but for the person attached to the offending hand to be, well, a little old lady – that took some beating.
Malc finished. His friends were silent. He slurped his tea, and his friends were silent. For Malc, the thought began to form that it would have been better never to tell his story at all.