By yourself on the train, you watch people. You watch them come and go, into the car and out of the car, into your life and out of your life, people you have never seen before and will never see again. You’ve missed your stop, and you decide to stay onboard for another full loop. You have nothing better to do, anyway. The people are coming and going like the flickering image of a 1940s black and white television screen.
You raise your eyes to the door sliding open, an elderly man hobbling in, his right hand retaining a firm grip on his cane. He knows what he’s doing, and you know that he no longer needs to think about watching the gap between the train and the platform. He sits down across from you, letting out a sigh like a gust of wind blowing across a field of corn stalks. His coat rustles and crunches like dead leaves on the forest ground as he moves to take it off. He smells of tobacco and dust, reminis