Warm Riding

A friend challenged me to write her a short story for her to read on her way home. She was already at the bus stop - this is what happened:

The crowd at the bus stop dwindled with every passing song blasting through her iport phone; by the time her steel carriage, promptly for a change, she had passed her third Creedence Clearwater Revival track. The driver welcomed iPort Cutey aboard, welcoming the prettiest face he had seen all night as the rest of the passangers couldn't help but smile as she shuffled down the aisle, when, incidentally, her iport's voiceprint alerted her to an incoming call. iPort Cutey retrieved it from her jacket's pocket, thumbing the touchscreen to accept the call, which flashed a full-body, three dimensional hologram of her friend, whom she had recently bastardized for trying to turn sea monkies into cannibals so they'd make better meteorologists than the ones on television. They exchanged greetings and in the midst of playing catch-up, her friend pointed outside the bus window and asked, "Why's that guy trying to fuck that soda machine?" iPort Cutey corrected him in her gently direct way, telling him it was actually a hand-warmer dispencer, and that it was quite cold outside; she even had a hand warmer in her purse, so she didn't have to go around humping any soda machines.