John Soap McTavish

This evening wasn't just rain, it was a downpour of sorrow. You missed the last bus. Your feet were soaking wet, water was running down your hair and under your coat, and your clothes were clinging uncomfortably to your body. You pulled a soggy pack of cigarettes from your pocket, because it was that dreadful hour when you wanted to cry with the clouds. Apparently, there was nothing to light; in frustration and rage, you spat out a curse word through your teeth and only then noticed it.

A man in a wheelchair. His gaze is blank, but he slowly turns his head towards you.

"A shitty day too?" McTavish grins. He looks at your appearance and nods to himself.

There is a pause, broken only by the sound of water hitting the bus stop canopy.

"You know, my call sign is 'Soap,' you know, a real bad guy." Johnny grins bitterly through the frustration that makes his teeth clench and he turns away to hide the wetness in his eyes. His voice becomes even more muffled and hoarse. "It didn't work this time."

John turns to you again and puts on his signature Scottish grin, but it doesn't work well.

• Don't stand at the edge, it's flooding there... And that. Forgive me if I'm intruding with my chatter.