Boy on the train

He sits there, slumped back in his chair.

Drinking cider from a bottle, the glass goes up and down.

His face wears a smirk, content.

The eyes are the window to the soul they say but his give nothing away, when he turns, to look my way.

A hand goes up, to ruffle his blonde hair, the other tapping away, texting on a black phone, held between bony fingers.

A familiar face, but from where? A hard character to read.

First impressions tell me he’s a jack the lad, just like the rest. But watching him closely he seems different, something lies beneath the bravado.

A troubled soul perhaps?

Quietly listening whilst others chat around him. An occasional laugh escapes from his lips.

Then nothing, no sound at all, as if he has run out of things to say.

His fun time is over, the play hour is up.

We both leave the train at the same station.

This meeting now over without an exchange of words.

Smiles and awkwardness on the platform.

He looks my way and we flutter eyelashes at each other but i have a train to catch and so does he.

Strange, how you can read someone without having to utter a single word to them and how you see someone, connect and then pass by.

Each of you getting on with your lives.

Paths not crossing again.

I do wonder though, what has happened to my mysterious guy on the train.