I saw him again today. I think he saw me. I’m not sure. He strides past me, so fast that the pinstripes on his suit blur: I may just be a stain on his peripheral vision. Well, I say I think he saw me. We always see each other, though he pretends not to.
I sit in the same place every day, on the left of the side gate to the platform, up against the chain link fence. Overgrown weeds emerging from cracks in the pavement dress the damp edges of my cardboard. A futile method of insulation. While he walks past me to catch the 7:23am train to God-knows-where he always takes care to have a long look at his white gold Rolex or sometimes at the wall on the other side of the gate, pretending to take interest in a poster that’s not there. Anything to avoid my gaze.
*
Today he arrived earlier than usual. I had only just woken up, the early sunrise of summer rarely permitting me a lie-in. Obnoxiously loudly, he made his order at the coffee shop at the station, the crappy americano in a dented polystyrene cup a far cry from the Italian leather monogrammed briefcase he held in his other hand. He smiled at the coffee girl. I think he liked her. She looked quite like me, a younger version of myself. Slightly frizzy blonde hair in a ponytail, brown eyes like mine only nowhere near as tired. This unusual friendliness worried me slightly, I’d noticed his wedding ring a couple of days earlier, and a few times speaking on his phone I’d heard him saying hello to different female names. He’s probably not cheating on his wife, not that it’s my business either way.
*
“I’ve got the presentation ready on my laptop, I’m completely prepared. I thought you said quarter to ten.”
He missed his meeting today and his excuses reeked of desperation: I think they changed the time but he didn’t know, and from his half of the conversation, I sensed his boss was not pleased. Hunched over on the edge of a bench, he rubbed the bridge of his nose while the other person talked. Ending it by hanging up, he didn’t get on the train to work but stormed out of the station. As he rushed back through the side gate, for once it was me who pretended not to see, instead feigning interest in the auburn leaves crowding the base of the fence.
*
Someone bought me a sandwich today, coronation chicken on white bread, a young mother with a son who had recently learnt how to walk. People can be nice sometimes.
*
I saw him again this morning, Plain Navy Suit this time. He was late. His train had left about twenty minutes earlier and he’d been running. Despite the chill in the air, he was carrying his jacket, sweat dampening the armpits of his pink cotton shirt. Usually I see him step out of a taxi about ten minutes before his train but less and less lately. He looked tired, a greying, off-white sort of pale like the out of date newspapers I read to pass the time, or like someone who has barely slept in over a week – maybe he hadn’t. His shirt hadn’t been ironed. He’d stopped wearing a tie. I’ve started to worry about him; though, the more I look at him with concern as he passes, the more interested he becomes in the floor as he shuffles past my sleeping bag.
*
I heard him today but didn’t see him. As he and his wife argued on the platform a few metres from me, I didn’t dare to look up. I don’t think she’d had to get the train much before. Something about their car. Something about him flirting. Something about his job. Something about money.
*
Checking the time on his dated Casio watch, he characteristically pretended not to see me as he walked onto the platform this afternoon. Another cough tore through my chest as he came through. I’d worry it might have come across as clearing my throat for attention if it wasn’t for the deep croak behind it.
As he was greeted by someone I assumed must be a colleague of his, a smile appeared on his face drawing attention to the unkempt stubble that surrounded it. After the wind drove them into the inside waiting area, I distracted myself from the throbbing behind my eyes by rearranging my meagre belongings into a pile up against the fence. It was dark when they came back onto the platform. Light Grey Suit looked down at the shiny wet paving slabs as he held out his trembling hand. His colleague, or perhaps he was more of a friend, pulled him into a hug. Again, he attempted that same pained smile and the other man got on his train. Light Grey Suit didn’t get on train. He walked back through the side gate letting out a long quivering sigh.
*
I saw him again this morning, he got his usual 7:23am train. Arriving early but this time without buying a coffee, he sat on a bench and opened his briefcase on this lap. I’d seen a laptop in there before but this time just a confusion of A4 pieces of paper and unstamped white envelopes. He divided the time by ordering the contents of the briefcase, proofreading the typed sides of the paper, and nervously smoothing out his greying sideburns with his hands. Once more he was Pinstripe Suit, definitely wearing the same one as before but now it was baggy, the buttoned front of the jacket hanging away from his ironed but pilling cotton shirt.
*
Surprisingly, I saw him today: I thought he’d stopped getting the train. The bright overcast sky hurt my eyes to look up but I had to check that it was him. No suit at all today. No pinstripes, no watch, not wedding ring, no briefcase. A waterproof coat, old jeans, trainers, a backpack. I watched him go over to the coffee shop. He opened the backpack and took out a typed A4 piece of paper, damp from the rain soaking through his backpack, the corners of the page curled in from being shoved inside. Shaking her head, the coffee girl gave him back the paper and a pitying smile He didn’t get on a train. He marched back out through the side gate, accidentally stepping in a puddle, a mix of thawed snow and spitting rain, and splashing water onto the side of my sleeping bag. It didn’t matter, the rain had long before soaked through.
*
Today I saw him earlier than ever before, the . He was sitting up against the brick wall of the platform opposite on top of his empty flattened backpack. A futile method of insulation. He stared right back, for once not pretending not to see me.
***
Abbie Edwards and the Attempt at a Blog 