On the Train Eight-thirty five am. Watching a man at my diagonal. He is struggling to keep awake. I can tell he’s a drinker - a real drinker; not the playing-at-it type but a serious drinker whose glass is always just below half full. He’s fifty if he’s a day, and I feel a wave of admiration for him. He must have peaked in his work, yet he holds onto his job against youngsters willing to do it for half the money. He drinks like a fish, yet can make it to the eight-thirty five am. train. Nice suit, a bit crumpled, but expensive. He is scratching himself and yawning. The provincial stations flash by but he stares ahead - his eyes flecked with yellow. Then he starts to rub his face, using both hands. It’s a vigorous rubbing, palms pressed against his face - rubbing as if to erase something. Abruptly he stops; his hand move downwards and I watch with fascination how his face is frozen with the last ‘upward’ rubbing motion. The skin of his face remains for two seconds in the pushed up position, distorting his expression, in fact making him into a different person altogether! And then, with a silent plop, his features drop and resume the normal expression. I wish I could draw!
Posted on: Sun, 21 Dec 2014 12:49:21 +0000
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