It was a Tuesday, maybe. So late I was lucky to be on a tram. There were maybe three other people, all spread out, like some force of magnetic repulsion was keeping us as far apart as possible. Which was fine with me. I'd been writing essays all day. I'd be writing essays all night. Probably the most words I'd spoken all day were to order a coffee.
The tram stopped at King St. Some oldish guy got on the door closest to me. Stood there. Weaved. I felt him looking at me before he took the seat across the aisle. I concentrated on my window. Listened to my music.
Pretty soon he was asking me what tram he was on. I told him. Did it stop at Southern Cross? Yeah, coupla stops down. Listened to my music. He needed to be on the 96, did it connect? Yeah, if he just crossed this street, and that one ... Our voices echoed. We were the only people talking. Talking through music. What tram are we on? What number? Then his tram crossed right in front of us. If you ran, I said, you could catch it. Nah too drunk he said. At least I'm honest, he added, right? I laughed. Sorry, he said, I don't want to interrupt your music. No it's okay, I said, and it was.
We kept talking. Stupid stuff. The talk of two people who can hardly string a sentence together. I made some lame joke and a slow smile split his face in two. When he decided to get off I pointed him towards his tram, his suburb. He thanked me, said goodnight, and stumbled off in the opposite direction. There was a knock on the window. He was grinning, waving. Not sleazy. Just the biggest, goofiest, drunken smile you ever saw.
No comments:
Post a Comment