Company Shuttle to Metro

The company I contract for provides a morning and evening shuttle from our local office to the nearest metro, which is almost cooler than having a cafeteria in the business building and a pond in the backyard.

All in all, the service consists of two white mini-vans, perhaps seating 10 besides the driver, with sliding doors that no one is quite strong enough to shut at first attempt. Sometimes the driver will be the company wide mail man. Sometimes it'll be that maintenance/security middle-aged guy with a heavy Hispanic accent that waves and never fails to greet: "Hello, MimB, my friend, how are you today".
Yesterday, the driver was as new to me as I was to all the regular passengers. I climbed in behind him, fenced myself in by the window with bags and arms, and tried to pretend that my occasional coughing fits and incredibly purple shirt were only part of the scenery. He wore thick round glasses and spoke kindly, leisurely, without a hint of irritation.
A small aged woman sat beside the driver, waving a cellphone in one hand, and an express letter in another. She was 60 at the least, with a full head of long puffy hair with a rare streak of silver in the otherwise black, her arms evenly tan and thin. Had one not heard the rasp in her voice, or wondered at the unnatural bend of all the upper joins in her fingers, or seen  the characteristic manner in which skin begins to hang off arms with age, as if a worn shirt, one could have thought her young.
From time to time, she's smile, twist a little to look at the rest of us in the back, laugh while looking straight at us, including us in the joke, encouraging agreement.
For the whole 15 or more minutes of the ride, the driver and she danced in a ceaseless circle, barely stopping to take a breath, heavily accented English recycling each others' words and points. The conversation boiled down to this:

A higher up asked the women to drop off mail, with an intent of having the package ship overnight. The woman took it upon herself but didn't check to make sure that all the labels and certifications were done correctly. Too late, it became apparent that one of the green labels lacked a tracking number, and that the delivery confirmation feature would not work because the recipient's address was a PO box, instead of a person. Moreover, it was after 5pm and the post offices were likely all closed, right?
So she would pass the package to the driver - and he was to visit a Post Office, see if he could still drop the package off with sped up delivery, and if he could not, drop it off the day after.

You'd think that such a discussion should take all of 2 minutes. An extra minute if any of us in the back seat would have spoken up and mentioned that, by the way, the USPS by the Shady Grove is actually open until 7pm...
But I suppose when one is flirting, any topic works, even if regurgitated and recycled through everyone else's ears until even the most patient lose their amusement and smiles and seek escape.