The bus pulled up with a screech, and thunder threatened rain from the night air up above. Great. And us with no umbrellas. Great. Just great. Typical. The driver, a middle aged Amazon man with a pot belly, looked down at us. He was scanning up and around for any Amazons; our ‘Mommies or Daddies’. “Coming up, or do you need help?”

“Just a moment,” Catherine said. We climbed up onto the bus. Not an easy feat, but one we were practiced at. It was something we’d worked out in college. I’d cup my hands and boost Catherine up a step. Then she’d bend over and help yank me up. Rinse and repeat for three easy steps. It was how we worked public transportation in Oakshire, the only difference being that Catherine had to make sure to hold onto our box of leftovers from dinner. That was Catherine’s lunch tomorrow.

The driver looked down at us and checked our bus passes. “Nice!” he said, sounding genuinely impressed. “Very ingenuitive.”

“Thanks,” Catherine said and then threw me a look. Ingenuitive. There was a backhanded compliment. Littles didn’t make it to our age in this part of the world without learning a few tricks to adapt. At least he didn’t say ‘Mature’, or ‘Grown-Up’.

The bus was relatively empty, only a few Amazons and a couple of Tweeners sitting in the middle back. Still, Catherine and I stayed standing near the front, grabbing onto a vertical pole for balance. Sitting Littles were sitting ducks.

I had to pee, badly, and was starting to fidget. That’s what it was called when Amazons did it anyways. It was the “the potty dance” when Littles were discomforted by a full bladder. I hoped the moving and shaking of the bus over bumpy roads would obfuscate it.

We started moving. The hum of the moving vehicle was interrupted only by the occasional squealing brakes at a stoplight, or the low warning of thunder. Catherine leaned over and gave me a peck on the cheek. Nothing major. Nervous habit. “What do you think she did?” she asked me in a quiet voice.

“Who?” I asked.

“That lady in the restaurant,” Catherine said. “How do you think she got taken?”

I wanted to say ‘who?’. I wanted to play dumb. But I knew who my wife was talking about. It hadn’t even been ten minutes. “She was a realtor,” I said. “Probably got snatched showing the wrong couple a house.”

“Yeah,” Catherine whispered. “Was probably trying to look cute or something to sell the house. Ended up getting sold herself.”

I blanched and drew back. Threw Catherine a look. “Yikes!” I hissed. “Victim blame, much?”

Catherine got this sour look on her face. “Morally? No. Tactically? Yes.”

“So you think she wore something just a little too cute and that it’s her fault that that happened to her?” I didn’t even know why I was asking. I kind of agreed.

My wife reached over and tugged on my goatee a bit. “Isn’t that why you have this?” Dang it.

“I thought it was because I looked good with it.”

“You do look good with it,” she said. “But that’s not the only reason.”

I gave up. “You know me too well, my love.” We kissed each other again. Just a little peck. Just enough to remind ourselves (and any giants watching) that we were two Littles who were madly in love, and not constantly in danger of being ‘adopted’.