The Man On The Train

He’s an older man, most likely in his early seventies. Smartly dressed in a dark grey and white checkered suit, but you can tell that it’s not a special occasion, he always dresses like this.

His arms are crossed and resting neatly upon a rounded stomach that moves up and down with each long breath he takes. A fluffy white beard covers most of his face, vaguely reminiscent of cotton wool, actually no, candy floss!

A pale yellowy green turban protrudes proudly from his head. He has a silver ring dotted with gems wound tightly around the index finger of his right hand.

But what I notice first, before all of that, are his eyes. Sunken yet full of depth. A sign of wisdom perhaps, he’s definitely been through a lot. I can gage this simply from the way that he’s staring longingly out of the battered train window.

Clearing his throat and patting his breast pocket to check that his train ticket is still there, I assume, his gaze suddenly meets mine.

Almost unwittingly, he glances at my right wrist, spotting my Kara, nearly identical to the one on his own arm, only mine is slightly thinner with more ridges.

He looks back into my eyes and smiles knowingly, a paternal kind of expression, it reminds me of my grandfather so I soften and smile back.

As the train slowly grinds to a halt he breaks eye contact and heaves himself from the seat, patting the arm rest at my side as he walks by.

I look back and he’s gone. The doors close and the train continues to plod along. Next stop: Abbey Wood.

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