The Handsome Bastard

You climb the platform stairs behind a well-groomed man. Your words are stuck. They always are at moments like this. Those crisp moments of the early morning where every breath spoken is underscored and exaggerated by great plumes of mist. You check your watch. Everyone knows not to speak to strangers at the train station at 6.43AM. Have they had their coffee? Have you? Do you even remember? Who the fuck knows.

But that’s hardly the point. You’re stalling, not wanting to draw the attention of a stranger or – worse yet – multiple strangers. You know that you should say something but what if, once started, it can’t be stopped? What if the wrong words spill out of your lips and pollute the ever-so-still air with your bleating rasp. Then, knowing you’ve already broken the unspoken rule of public transport, what if you continue to babble? What if under the gaze of all these poor, innocent travellers, you panic and bare your unwashed soul in a deluge of verbal diarrhea?

‘…and no, no I didn’t brush my teeth this morning but it was a choice between that or making a coffee and so you can all see my dilemma ha-ha-haa…’ 

Good god no, that won’t do. You shudder internally at the thought of so many empty eyes gazing as you gibber.

On the upside, you’re now quietly confident you did, in fact, have coffee this morning.

But what of this unfortunate man? This unfortunate, handsome bastard with no idea what his future holds. He could be headed to an important meeting, or a job interview. He deserves to be told.

He has settled himself at the only remaining seat at the adjacent platform, far from you. You shrug, relieved that your opportunity has passed you by, as so many do. He adjusts the expensive-looking red tie that hangs around his throat. A throat that, you’re quite sure, would not have closed over at the mere thought of being heard. Shame settles over you like a damp blanket.

Surely he deserves some sort of warning? But would you, in his shoes, want to be warned? Is the idea of having attention thrust upon you by a stranger any more palatable than drawing it upon yourself? Who’s to say that he is as comfortable with attention as he seems? Perhaps he would find such attention - the piercing of his private commuter bubble - so rude an awakening that he would sooner meet his future of his own volition? And who are you to take that freedom from him? God? No. No, a god would gift themselves with the power of speech. Or invisibility. Or being less sweaty. How can you be this sweaty and this cold all at once? Seems like evidence of no god at all.

You pause. Did you say that out loud? The only way to find out is if people are looking at you. But the only way to know if people are looking at you is by looking at them.

And if they’re looking at you and you’re looking at them, that means you’ve made eye contact.

In the morning.

With a stranger.

What if this eye contact is just two people who sweep their eyes across a crowd and land, by chance, upon each other? What if this other person has only just glanced up and found you looking at them. Would they perhaps imagine you were staring? At that point you might as well have slept with them. And you may be none the wiser! No, to confirm people were looking because you spoke out loud, rather than a mere a case of wandering eye, you would have to make eye contact with at least one other person.

Two people.

Two strangers.

And then what? You would simply confirm to people that yes, it was you sweating profusely through a brisk winter’s morning, mumbling about there being ‘no god at all.’ They would inch away from you, perhaps pre-dialing emergency numbers into their phones.

You hesitate under these imagined gazes. The unknown is worse, you decide, and in a brief and uncharacteristic flash of bravery, you glance quickly about yourself (doing your best to avoid eye contact, of course.)

Nobody is paying you any attention whatsoever. Cold relief washes over you. It’s refreshing, for a moment, until the sweat that has drenched through two layers of clothing (good god what a mess) makes contact with the frigid air. Now you’re shivering.

This is fine though. It’s much better than having blathered about unbrushed teeth or god delusions. You’re still unsure what to do about the Handsome Bastard but soon you will be whisked away from his life, ensconced in the warming embrace of the train. There’s simply no time to do anything beforehand. You breathe a contented sigh into the quiet morning, watching it tumble away like tiny clouds.

The speakers crackle in the distance, but that’s expected noise, an unfortunate part of the ambience. It won’t disturb your hard-fought peace.

The train will be late.

So you stand there. Watching the last of your contented breath dissolve in the wind, wondering when you might ever have another. You’re obliged now, are you not? There was an implicit deal. The train would arrive too soon, the Handsome Bastard was on his own. But now the train is late.

You make a mental note to never cut deals based upon the timeliness of public transport ever again and, silently cursing, make your way across the station.

You wait, hovering. He’s seated, a newspaper spread before him. He’s even more handsome up close. But if you time this correctly, you can drop this important information and be gone from his life in seconds. The sweat has returned, dripping down your back, but it’s fine. Simply the price of doing the right thing. You can hear the train approaching in the distance. You go to speak, but your throat is unspeakably dry.

‘Excuse me.’ It comes out as a whispered rasp.

You clear your throat and try again.

‘EXCUSE ME.’ Fuck, too loud by half. The Handsome Bastard and half the platform are now looking at you. You’re in too deep now though, no going back. He’s looking at you questioningly.

‘I’m sorry, you…’ your voice is back to a whisper, forcing him to lean closer to hear. He smells like almonds. How does someone even smell like almonds? Beside the point.

‘Your shirt. It’s tucked into your underwear.’

He glances down to where his Calvin Kleins protrude and you feel relief once more. Now, surely, it is he who will feel some of the shame that you’ve carried all this time.

But no. He stands, he smiles, he thanks you. He looks like Clarke Kent. Perhaps he meant to have his underwear on the outside. He remedies his malfunction without a hint of embarrassment and walks towards the train now gliding into the station.

Your train. He walks towards your train. But he was sitting at the other platform. This seems manifestly unfair. You move to follow him as the platform empties into the waiting carriage. You pause. What if you end up seated beside each other? What if his commute is also an hour long? What if, what if.

You pull your phone from your pocket. The time is 6.49.

The platform around you is still and empty. The train is full. You text your boss. You’re going to be late for work.

As the train leaves you behind, you fish a napkin from your backpack and, taking advantage of the temporary privacy, pat yourself dry.

You glance up, making eye contact with an unusually beautiful woman as you dry your armpits with a napkin.

‘No god at all,’ you mumble.