I listened to the man in front of me on the bus. I guess he must choose to drink a lot of music jobs as he apparently owned his own guitar. His fingers running over the strings with the easy confidence that came from the distilled knowledge of the donors chosen for the fast Spanish style he was playing.
Clear blue began to appear outside the window, the winter sun chasing the last of the thin clouds from the sky. My fingers were cold against my skin as I absent-mindedly ran them through my hair and across the short baby scar behind my left ear. A patch of skin that had never had any hair, right over the spot where the interface had been installed just after I’d been born. It had to be just after birth, something about brain plasticity or something. I shivered, pulling at the velcro patches on the back of my fingerless gloves and pulled the pockets over, turning them into snug mittens.
The music slowed and stopped along with the bus as we pulled up in front of the depot. Time to pick up the tools for today.