plus qu’hier moins que demain

On the way home, there was a guy [who looks suspiciously like one of Beebs' colleagues] standing in front of me in the train. Nobody took notice of him, not even me, because he was just another nondescript working man travelling back home.

It was only when the train jerked slightly and he stumbled and lost his balance, tried to reach for the poles couldn’t reach for them in time reached out for the ten outstretched hands including mine that were trying to help him still couldn’t grasp our hands in time and tumbled onto the floor with his black laptop bag crashing beside him, that we gaped at him in helpless horror.

For the rest of his journey, I peeked at him and his colleague [only occasionally so, because I was caught up in my frustrated misery] and realised that he might be slightly drunk.

And sad. He looked really sad. Tears were threatening to spill out of his eyes and his nose was pinkish, not from embarrassment but from cryingtoomuch. He looked as if his heart got broken, he still love the one who broke his heart and that he went drinking to forget.

How strange that I can deduce all that from observation, I thought to myself. Is it because I am feeling that amount of sadness as well? And without warning, the tears that I had been holding back for so long flooded my eyes.

s t a r m | s t November 15th, 2005

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