the young man with the old suitcase
has an unusual style
unusual but
successful
his trousers are grey and black speckled wool and his shirt is a very dark brown
so dark it almost seems charcoal
just not quite
it sits firm but not tight on his compact sinewy body
with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows
he must have at least three friends because he wears
on his left wrist
a vintage watch with a light brown strap and
three friendship bracelets of three different types in three different colours
on his little left finger is a plain silver ring that might just be white gold but probably isn’t
and on his right ring finger there’s a broad silver ring
matt
with two dark grooves, one each side by the edge
it’s impossible to tell whether this is a symbol of friendship or love, or just
an adornment
his face is small but endearing
a little mousy, in a nice way
and his hair is dark blond and probably smells of
apple
(on second thought it probably doesn’t, it probably smells a little of musk from a decent but not overpriced shampoo he used just a short while
ago)
in his left ear he has a tiny diamond-type stud and another, slightly bigger one
under his lip, not in the centre, but to the right, which is both a little unusual and
also
not unattractive
the young man with the old suitcase peels the foil off a lid of a tub of pasta and releases from it a tiny black fork, he unfolds it and opens the tub and slowly starts eating the pasta. every so often he looks up at the panel above the seats opposite to check on the progress of his district line train: wimbledon to the centre of town. when he does so his small but endearing forehead frowns into four even folds, curious rather than worried. his eyes are a little uncertain but mild and you think any moment now he is going to smile. but he doesn’t. he seems quite content and the pasta, while not exactly delicious, is clearly doing the trick.
he’s a fastidious eater and he doesn’t like it when some of the sauce or dressing or whatever it is on his pasta gets on his fingers and he doesn’t have a napkin to wipe his hands and i’m with him on that because i don’t like that either when it happens to me. he doesn’t lick his fingers and i’m glad he doesn’t because that, on a tube train, would be both unhygienic and crude.
on his lap he has a parka that’s black or a very dark grey with a brownish bit of fur around the hood the way you normally see in the winter. it’s august. but it has been raining a lot and although it’s not raining now it is going to rain again soon. he doesn’t want the sauce or the dressing or whatever it is that he has on his fingers from his pasta to get on the parka and i’m with him on that too, because that’s just a nuisance.
he finishes his pasta and puts the little black fork into the tub and replaces the lid and now
he doesn’t know what to do
he looks around for a bin but there isn’t one and so he puts the tub
carefully down
between his feet behind the old suitcase
on the floor
his boots which are ankle high and probably leather or suede are sheepskin or fur-lined but it’s hard to see them properly because they’re
hidden
behind the suitcase
i wonder what’s in that suitcase
it’s light brown, almost beige, made of leather, with two belt buckles and straps to fasten it shut and no wheels or extendable handle, it’s
the kind of suitcase my grandmother would have taken to italy
from switzerland
on a train
it’s about that size too, a third the size of a normal big suitcase, the kind of case you’d have for a short trip or a week end
but it’s loosely, sparingly packed and rather than bulge on the sides it actually has
some slack
maybe it’s empty.
i feel tempted to lift it up just to check, but that would surely alarm him
i wonder where he’s going with his empty
or half-empty
suitcase
and i wonder where he’s from with his successful albeit unusual style that’s a little fastidious but still very cool, maybe
eastern europe
a man with no style at all but maybe a very big heart enters the carriage and sits down nearer the doors and starts talking on the phone in polish. a flicker of recognition registers on the young man’s face, but he doesn’t really look polish to me and also maybe i’m imagining this having just thought that he might be from eastern europe. maybe he’s czech.
i should probably just lean forward and say
excuse me young man
you have an unusual style that is very successful
where are you from?
and what, if anything, is in your suitcase?
but i don’t because we’re now at earl’s court and i need
to get off
so i leave him to his style and his case and his
mystery
i hope
he doesn’t
forget
to pick up
the tub
when he leaves
and bin it
(because that would just ruin everything)
has an unusual style
unusual but
successful
his trousers are grey and black speckled wool and his shirt is a very dark brown
so dark it almost seems charcoal
just not quite
it sits firm but not tight on his compact sinewy body
with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows
he must have at least three friends because he wears
on his left wrist
a vintage watch with a light brown strap and
three friendship bracelets of three different types in three different colours
on his little left finger is a plain silver ring that might just be white gold but probably isn’t
and on his right ring finger there’s a broad silver ring
matt
with two dark grooves, one each side by the edge
it’s impossible to tell whether this is a symbol of friendship or love, or just
an adornment
his face is small but endearing
a little mousy, in a nice way
and his hair is dark blond and probably smells of
apple
(on second thought it probably doesn’t, it probably smells a little of musk from a decent but not overpriced shampoo he used just a short while
ago)
in his left ear he has a tiny diamond-type stud and another, slightly bigger one
under his lip, not in the centre, but to the right, which is both a little unusual and
also
not unattractive
the young man with the old suitcase peels the foil off a lid of a tub of pasta and releases from it a tiny black fork, he unfolds it and opens the tub and slowly starts eating the pasta. every so often he looks up at the panel above the seats opposite to check on the progress of his district line train: wimbledon to the centre of town. when he does so his small but endearing forehead frowns into four even folds, curious rather than worried. his eyes are a little uncertain but mild and you think any moment now he is going to smile. but he doesn’t. he seems quite content and the pasta, while not exactly delicious, is clearly doing the trick.
he’s a fastidious eater and he doesn’t like it when some of the sauce or dressing or whatever it is on his pasta gets on his fingers and he doesn’t have a napkin to wipe his hands and i’m with him on that because i don’t like that either when it happens to me. he doesn’t lick his fingers and i’m glad he doesn’t because that, on a tube train, would be both unhygienic and crude.
on his lap he has a parka that’s black or a very dark grey with a brownish bit of fur around the hood the way you normally see in the winter. it’s august. but it has been raining a lot and although it’s not raining now it is going to rain again soon. he doesn’t want the sauce or the dressing or whatever it is that he has on his fingers from his pasta to get on the parka and i’m with him on that too, because that’s just a nuisance.
he finishes his pasta and puts the little black fork into the tub and replaces the lid and now
he doesn’t know what to do
he looks around for a bin but there isn’t one and so he puts the tub
carefully down
between his feet behind the old suitcase
on the floor
his boots which are ankle high and probably leather or suede are sheepskin or fur-lined but it’s hard to see them properly because they’re
hidden
behind the suitcase
i wonder what’s in that suitcase
it’s light brown, almost beige, made of leather, with two belt buckles and straps to fasten it shut and no wheels or extendable handle, it’s
the kind of suitcase my grandmother would have taken to italy
from switzerland
on a train
it’s about that size too, a third the size of a normal big suitcase, the kind of case you’d have for a short trip or a week end
but it’s loosely, sparingly packed and rather than bulge on the sides it actually has
some slack
maybe it’s empty.
i feel tempted to lift it up just to check, but that would surely alarm him
i wonder where he’s going with his empty
or half-empty
suitcase
and i wonder where he’s from with his successful albeit unusual style that’s a little fastidious but still very cool, maybe
eastern europe
a man with no style at all but maybe a very big heart enters the carriage and sits down nearer the doors and starts talking on the phone in polish. a flicker of recognition registers on the young man’s face, but he doesn’t really look polish to me and also maybe i’m imagining this having just thought that he might be from eastern europe. maybe he’s czech.
i should probably just lean forward and say
excuse me young man
you have an unusual style that is very successful
where are you from?
and what, if anything, is in your suitcase?
but i don’t because we’re now at earl’s court and i need
to get off
so i leave him to his style and his case and his
mystery
i hope
he doesn’t
forget
to pick up
the tub
when he leaves
and bin it
(because that would just ruin everything)
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