He
boarded the train, and chose his seat carefully, wary to hide his gaze from
strangers.
Placing
two bags on the luggage rack, he was satisfied with his location, and settled
down in the seat, cautious not to crease his coat.
Staring
out the window, the city changed to suburb, the suburb to fields.
He
wished he could smoke.
The
past week had stolen something from him; all was not well in the world.
Death
clung to his atmosphere, the other passengers nothing but ghosts.
He
wasn’t sad. At least, not now.
Merely
contemplative, on the recent change in his life. The thought that he would
never have a similar Christmas, that he would not wind the oaken stairs to
oxygenised passageways and the assault of early afternoon game shows on full
volume.
He
wished he hadn’t complained so much.
He
stood in car parks and smoked, sneered, judged, scorned, spat.
Stock
still in an unseen corner, observing from the shadows. He saw everywhere, people
scrambling for a safety sewn shut.
The
sun outside the window slowly faded, and he realised that he was staring at his
own reflection.
He
gazed serenely into his own tired eyes, looking for something.
For
that shimmering, stirring light that exposed his true thoughts, once.
He
saw jet black encircled by pale grey, haloed by bloodshot white, and knew that
this wasn’t him.
He
closed his eyes and remembered the night before.
The
grief, the sadness, the intolerable guilt.
The
secret of a stranger that they will share forever
He
remembered the clutching hands of love, leading him home again.
He
opened his eyes, picked up two bags, and departed the train in single file
Like
school children and prisoners
He
understood, now, that for the first time in his life
He
was about to say goodbye.
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