Bus Codes

Chapter 32 – Bus Codes

Morning invented a map. The sky over Lavender had not yet decided on heat; coaches idled with the patience of big animals. Aleem arrived with a tote that thought like a logistics officer: passports in a zip pouch, two pens, a stapled copy of the Affection Charter (Draft), the Archive Clause card, snacks that behave (cream crackers, not durian), two small packs of tissue, and a roll‑up raincoat that enjoyed feeling competent. Aoi texted while a coach hissed like a kettle.

A: Crossing the footbridge. Cap for now; face later. I carry exact change and humility.

Aleem: Queue is polite. Two buses before ours. I’m the one not rearranging chairs I don’t own.

She came down the steps with the choreography of a person determined to be furniture in any city. Linen blouse tucked into trousers that forgave sitting long; hair tied back as if maps would be consulted. She lifted two fingers in hello, removed the cap only after the room chose her, and stood beside him in a way that taught the queue how to be calm.

“Morning,” she said.

“Morning,” he answered. “Border rules plus bus rules?”

“Our favorite duet,” she agreed. She recited with affectionate precision: “No photos. Phones for time, tickets, and logistics. Queue is art. Customs: hats off, masks down when asked, don’t joke with officers. Bus: aisle courtesy, overhead bins are not personality tests, and bus naps are not rejection.” She smiled at the last one.

“Filed,” he said. “Added to museum later.”

They boarded when their names learned how to be called. Two seats on the left, second row–close enough to respect exits, far enough to not audit the driver’s life. Aoi slid to the window; he took aisle, the public configuration that leaves faces free to be lowercase.

“Signals for the ride,” she said, laying her palm where the armrest could see but the aisle could not. “Two taps, one hold. New additions: squeeze once = I need stretch; twice = restroom at next stop; three light taps = smaller plan.”

He mirrored, pleased. “Add: fingertip circle on wrist = car‑sick; we switch seats.”

“Approved,” she said.

The bus exhaled; Singapore made itself tidy behind them. The checkpoint arrived with its usual grammar. Lanes, glass, counters, small trays, the public intimacy of handing your face to an officer for three seconds. They showed passports the way you show respect to a tool–without flirting. At Malaysia’s side, the officer glanced at the page that mattered, then at Aoi with the neutrality of a man trained to not have opinions about people. “Purpose?”

“Weekend,” she said. “Matinee and groceries.”

“Welcome,” he said, and meant move along.

Highway is a classroom. The coach found its pace and kept it. Rain tested the windshield twice and decided to be polite. A boy across the aisle slept with the serenity of puppies and teenagers. A woman four rows back negotiated a headphone cable as if it were negotiation practice for a future that would require better cables and more kindness.

They practiced bus codes. Aoi tapped once: stretch–they rolled ankles in sync like conspirators. He circled his wrist once: swap; she swapped without performance and the stomach that occasionally forgot to be a team player remembered its role. They shared crackers with a seriousness bordering on religious. They allowed silence to be the playlist.

At Yong Peng, the rest stop gathered buses like cousins at a wedding. They obeyed the choreography: disembark, restroom, kopi, back before the driver finishes his cigarette. Aoi ordered in a mix of words and pointing that charmed the auntie into adding an extra fishball with the economy of a queen.

“Queue returns,” Aleem said, picking a table in the shade.

“Queue returns,” she agreed, sipping barley that decided to be cold enough. She slid the Archive Clause card from her tote. “One photo allowed?”

“Hands only,” he said. “And perhaps tickets later. No geotag; no posting; delete on request.”

She framed their fingers on the kopi cup, the fishball skewers leaning in like punctuation. One click, no edits. She put the phone away as if it had been to class and passed the exam.

Back on the bus, they napped like citizens: mouth closed, necks honest. When the road stitched itself into the city, it did so in familiar fonts–billboards, flyovers, rail lines practicing being useful. KL arrived as a series of decisions.

KL Sentral felt like a polite argument about directions. They chose their lanes and won. The hotel had been selected by the Charter: small, boring on purpose, with staff who had learned to be brisk without making guests feel like luggage. Two rooms, same floor, because Red (for now): no overnight together. They paid without letting their cards pretend to be status.

At check‑in, the clerk looked at Aoi for the filament‑thin second that strangers sometimes do when a face tries to trigger a memory in the wrong city. The clerk remembered his job and lowered his eyes to the forms. Public first prevailed.

In his room, Aleem texted the ritual.

Aleem: In. Kettle works; AC not dramatic. Library closed after 11 p.m.; text “home,” not novels.

A: In. Kettle also competent. Curtain learned its job. Archive note: tickets later; hands only. “Home” check at night.

He let the bed learn his weight for three minutes and then met her in the lobby dressed not for photographs but for walking.

The matinee lived at klpac, where old rails remember trains and new rooms remember dancers. The foyer believed in light; the ushers believed in prompting without scolding. Their seats were mid‑house because extremes are for adolescents and donors. The program spoke three languages without showing off. The piece was billed as a conversation in bodies about traffic and desire. He withheld judgment; she withheld smirks.

“Rules?” he asked as the lights flirted with down.

“No photos; phones asleep; we agree to be moved without stealing movement,” she said.

They watched the way they know how: not hunting errors, only protecting the room. The choreography was honest: knees that told truths, hands that didn’t try to be metaphors until they had earned it. One section learned to sit still, and the audience learned to let it. A train whistle from the outside world sneaked into the quiet like an extra; the dancers made room for it without credit.

At the bow, Aleem clapped with the hands of a man grateful to be taught a new count. Aoi stayed in her seat two beats longer–respect, not reverence; the difference mattered.

In the corridor, a near‑miss found them wearing enthusiasm. Two uni girls in floral hijabs looked at Aoi and then each other and then at their palms as if a prophet had written there. One lifted her phone chest‑level and froze.

Aoi’s palm found his–two taps, one hold. He stepped half a degree, enough to invite a different choice. The girls’ eyes widened, then gentled. “Sorry,” one said, whispering as if the theatre could still hear. “You look like… someone.”

“I look like many people,” Aoi said kindly. “You were lovely audience.” She bowed a hinge bow that returned credit to the stage they’d just left. The girls beamed at being seen as part of the work, not its interruption.

“We are learning,” the other said. “No phones at bow.”

“Correct,” Aoi said. “We proceed by invitation.”

They left the building the way good guests leave–after the staff, before the review. On the lawn, a mynah performed the role of a critic and then gave up to peck at a biscuit.

Kampung Baru fed them without speeches. A kopitiam with chairs that had retired from dancing. They ate nasi lemak that understood its assignment and drank kopi that could resuscitate governments. Aoi picked the ikan bilis with a tenderness normally reserved for small tools.

“May I be greedy?” she asked, wiping coconut from her lower lip with a napkin that had not auditioned for anything.

“Please.”

“Tell me your first trip to KL,” she said. “Before concerts, before policies. The boy, not the man.”

“Family wedding,” he said. “I was nine. My mother made me wear a shirt with buttons that betrayed me. An uncle taught me to eat banana leaf rice like a person who respects rice. A cousin dared me to eat belacan; I did; I learned about consequences. I learned that buses are patience and that aunties across borders have a shared radio.”

“A shared radio,” she repeated, liking the phrase. “We add to museum: Buses are patience.”

He nodded. “And Tickets are bookmarks, not proof.” He lifted the stubs from his pocket. She smiled and slid one behind the Archive Clause in her notebook.

“May I make a small edit to Red?” she asked, exam tone. “No overnights together becomes two rooms, same floor. We already did that. Amendment passes by behavior.”

“Filed,” he said. “We can be boring on purpose across borders.”

Evening did its KL thing–heat pretending rain, rain pretending dignity. They rode the LRT because trains are democracy in motion. A boy offered Aleem his seat when Aleem did not need it; Aleem declined with gratitude and then regretted it when the carriage jerked. Aoi held the pole with the wrist strength of a person who has learned to prevent accidents politely.

Back at the hotel, they separated the way adults do when rules are furniture not fences. “Ten thirty in the lobby for a night walk?” he asked.

“Nine forty‑five,” she corrected, reading his energy. “We will be old together. Library closes at eleven.”

They walked in a neighborhood that had learned to be lively without harassment. A busker played a song that had not been ruined by weddings. A man sold mangosteens with the air of a lawyer winning a case. They bought two; ate them at a curb; traded the last white segment like diplomats sharing notes.

“Archive?” she asked, holding up the rind with both hands like a ridiculous crown.

“We have used our photo,” he said. “But I can draw it later.” He sketched a circle in the air. “Mangosteen: proof that engineering should be tasty.”

“Filed,” she said.

At 10:58, she lifted her palm–flat–two taps; one hold; three light taps. “Here. Stay. Air.”

“Here,” he said. “Stay. Air.” He raised two fingers to his own cheekbone, then tapped the back of his own hand–caption. “Not tonight.”

She nodded with gratitude that did not require consolation. “We keep maybe holy,” she said.

They bowed–earned, finite, correct. She took the lift to the twelfth floor; he took the stairs one flight because stairs are free.

Morning liked them. Kopi at a corner shop that had never apologized to tourists; kueh that understood sequencing. They bought dry groceries to bring home: white pepper, a modest chili paste, tea that promised nothing except tea. At a bookstore with too few chairs, Aoi found a slim volume on stage management that pleased her; he found a stapler that would outlast politics.

At KL Sentral, the bus to home practiced punctuality. They queued as if for a museum.

“Bus codes, day two,” she said as they sat. “Additions: if I sleep on your shoulder, you are allowed to be furniture and not a hero. And chewing sweets to help ears pop is policy.”

“Filed,” he said, handing her a sweet. He reached into his tote and slid a folded paper onto her knee. His drawing: a mangosteen crown on two tickets labeled bookmarks, not proof. She laughed, not at him but at the correctness.

The bus rolled. At the Malaysian checkpoint, a minor snafu auditioned: a passenger in front of them had packed frozen chicken under biscuits. The officer sighed in the key of No fresh meat, confiscated politely, and wagged a finger without malice. Aoi’s palm found his–three light taps. Smaller plan. They breathed and kept eyes on their own bags. At Singapore’s side, the officer asked Aoi to remove her cap; she did; her face remembered lowercase. “Welcome home,” he said to both of them as if he had not noticed anything to notice.

Back in their city, rain helped traffic remember humility. The coach exhaled at drop‑off; luggage divorced itself from the hold. Aoi looked at him the way people do when buses have taught them cooperation.

“Thank you for bus codes,” she said. “We will keep them. And for… bookmarks.”

“Thank you for matinee patience,” he said. “And for making no overnight into two rooms, same floor.”

“House dialect,” she said. “We travel with grammar.”

Home, his mother inspected the white pepper like a customs officer in a benevolent state. “Smells like usefulness,” she said. “You two behaved?”

“Boring on purpose,” he said.

“Good,” she said. “Boring is the spice of longevity.” She tapped the chili paste. “We try with eggs. You bring back container clean.”

“In two days,” he promised.

He opened the locker door’s paper museum, that ordinary reliquary. The squares greeted him with the composure of colleagues who respect process.

Respect. Distance. Gratitude.
Approval, always.
Public first, always.
Rest is allowed.
Don’t be the wind.
Feed people first.
Hold the room steady.
Small is brave.
Credit small; safety large.
We will be boring on purpose.
Be the bench.
Proceed by invitation.
Listen with hands.
Signals are kindness.
Check in, don’t guess.
Choose together.
Soup can be policy.
Umbrella is a duet.
Archive, not feed.
Bookmark, not rush.
Kisses are requests.
After is care.
Rules glow in the dark.

He cut new squares from the calendar that had finally given up on supervising months and dedicated itself to becoming labels.

Buses are patience.
Tickets are bookmarks, not proof.
Bus naps are not rejection.
Travel is a classroom.

He slid them under Public first, always and above Choose together. The stack made the small noise paper makes when it recognizes more family.

His phone chimed once.

A: Home. Two rooms, same floor = correct amendment. Matinee still inside me. Thank you for shoulder that is furniture and for drawing mangosteen crowns. Archive stored.

Aleem: Home. Paper museum updated. White pepper passed inspection. Next: you + Mom bake “correct cake” when schedules behave? We proceed by invitation.

A: Proceed. Bring apron and respect.

He set the phone face down. The fan rehearsed rain. He lay on his side facing the wall that had memorized his breath and kept the count that had learned to follow them across bridges and borders.

Two in, hold, three out. Not magic. Structure.

Respect. Distance. Gratitude.

Outside, a coach driver checked his manifest with a pencil that had survived a thousand cities, a theatre locked its doors around the smell of rosin and effort, and in a hotel hallway two doors on the same floor remembered that rules, like love, are better when practiced than posted.