I glance up from my book as he gets on the train. He perches on the seat, not quite facing forward, not quite sitting sideways. His suit is slightly too big for him, the shoulders stick out beyond his own, they're empty, there's nothing filling them. He's not wearing a tie but he is wearing a waistcoat, too formal for the office, the suit sits too badly on him, he's going to a funeral, he must be.
His eyes aren't concentrated on anything specific, they dart around the carriage, they never settle on one spot.
He clutches a card, sealed in an envelope, it has no name on the front. I wonder if he's handing it to the bereaved, not sure how to address it he's left it blank.
He rubs his face hard, I can't tell if it's to stop him crying or if he's trying to wake himself up and then he opens the envelope. He fumbles to tear it open, his thumb ripping at it. The last corner hasn't torn open and he wrenches it again and again trying to free the card. He gives in, he tears at the corner and opens the card. He doesn't want anyone to see, the front covered closely with the envelope, he reads it over and over, then carefully, never revealing the front of the card he puts it back into the envelope and rubs his face again.
My stop is approaching, he moves his legs so I can get past, I wait at the doors, he appears behind me, we leave the train, he is gone.
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