On Thursday, I took the 27 to Dame Street. My ears were wet and loud, Doechii blaring through my Marshalls that were wrapped tightly around my head. I was carrying two bags, leather and canvas- laptop, Sebald, housekeys, lip oil- I had slept through my alarm for the second time that week. In this economy?? I know. The bus shook beneath me when I got on, careful not to trip over my laces or the French Bulldog that boarded before me.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Fuck. I was swaying from the weight of all the shit in my hands.

I mean, fuck, I like pills, I like drugs

I like gettin’ money, I like strippers, I like to fuck

I like day-drinkin’ and day parties and Hollywood

Leap Top-Up was staring back at my sour face as I trudged over to the only empty seat on the bottom deck. Processing your payment… There was an error processing your payment. Try again. On the loudspeaker I hear, ‘Will the woman who just got on come to the front please?’ I thought okay, I’ll tell the guy there’s a problem with my card. Fucking Apple Pay. Fucking iPhone. So I walk up to where he’s sat- white, bald, aviator sunglasses pressed hard against his face.

‘What’s wrong with you?’ he says.

‘Uhh, nothing, I’m just having an issue with my card’.

‘You think I’m fecking stupid?’

‘No, I never said..’

‘You people always do this kinda shit y’know, ye lie and think we won’t catch you.’

‘Em I was just about to…’

‘D’you realise I could pick you up and throw you off the bus if I wanted to?’

‘What?’

The doors of the bus are gaping wide still and I’m angry. Pissed. I want to scream at him. Say it’s fucking Apple Pay. It’s my fucking iPhone. You can’t speak to me like that. But I take a beat and look around. Everyone’s staring in silence, either at me or out the window- cold February morning. Fogg Cafe on Cork St and yellow leaves hovering over the flat concrete. My heart’s racing. And he’s just looking at me- head cocked to one side like he knows there’s nothing I can do but agree. Concur. Wait. For AIB. For my breath to steady. For this awful moment to pass.

Whoopsie, made a oopsie

10,000-dollar oops made me loopy (yeah)

I ain’t a killer, but don’t push me

There's something about being trapped in a moving vehicle with a racist. The back of his head shining even on this grey winter day. Should I have said something? Flipped him off? Gotten off the bus? Probably. But I was late and paying through my nose for an M.Phil halfway across the world. I text my friends, make a dumb joke. Finish with something brash and bitty like ‘i bet he’s into lesbian porn’. And it helps till I’m near Trinity and stood at the exit doors. My legs wobbly with a lump in my throat that I swallow whole like that time I was at the immigration office and the white lady behind the glass enunciated her instructions with the kind of patronising inflection that echoes through a room.

So we’re gonna try a breathin’ excercise okay? (Alright, word)

When I breathe (okay), you breathe

I walk toward the campanile in my mink and bootcut denims that my mother wore to uni in the ‘90s. She’d tell me to keep my head down, so that’s what I do. Angry brown women never win the election. They set six alarms and top up their leap cards. They get to class, sit by the door and say, ‘Sorry I’m late!’