Shiny Red Button

The mom boards the bus with his little boy in an umbrella stroller. The occupants of the foldable seat at the front of the bus vacate it and lift it up so there's room for her and the stroller to stand out of the way of the rest of the passengers.

She's young - late 20s - and her shirt forgot to button itself up far enough this morning. Her long blonde hair is drawn up into a tight, practical ponytail. The kid is cute, a rambunctious little bundle. As she positions the stroller against the bus wall, he notices the shiny red button which seated passengers can press to signal the bus to stop. He reaches out to push the button, and she nudges the stroller back so he can't reach it. But he leans forward more, fingers just grazing the button. Another nudge, and another stretch - eventually she gives up and positions her leg in between him and the button. Checkmate.

A cell phone chimes. It's hers. She reaches into her back left pocket and pulls it up, examines the call display, and flips it open - a text message. She reads it, smiles, jabs a quick reply and slides the phone back into her pocket.

The phone chimes again. She pulls it out, reads, replies, and puts it back in her pocket again.

A third time, it chimes again. Rolling her eyes, she again reaches it out of her back pocket, reads and replies. This time she simply closes the phone and keeps it in her hand. Her trick works like a charm and the phone doesn't ring again.

Checkmate.

There's her stop.