“This isn't your train,” I tell the man sitting opposite me in this cramped, four seat compartment.
With his lips slightly ajar and his head pointed halfway to the window,
he stares at me like I'm crazy.
“It isn't. Yours left months ago.”
We are alone in the compartment. He shifts uncomfortably. He thinks that I think that maybe he doesn't understand English. He hopes this.
“Look, you can't just come in here, getting on other people's trains. It's not that I'm offended, it just ain't right, y'know? This isn't your train, is it?”
He must not like rhetorical questions. He's looking out the window.
“Alright buddy, listen to me; so you missed your train, so what? Sorry. I'll stop with the rhetorical questions, but really now, last month's train is leaving here in about three-hundred and forty-five seconds, it'll bisect ours somewhere just North of the faultline everybody always talks about.”
His expression is caught between horror, disgust, and fear.
I say slowly,
“You can get on it then, you know.”
We sit in silence for five minutes.
He is looking out the window. I am watching him watch things
pass us by.
He bows his head and puts on his bowler derby with one hand as he rises to his feet.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment