One Down

I took the tram to the library today, as I do every day except on Sundays when the library is closed. It cost the usual two dollars for a return ticket.

There were my usual, silent ‘friends’ on board. We have never spoken or have even asked each other our names but we are friends nonetheless. If one of us is absent then the loss is like a gaping wound felt by all, a tear in the fabric of the familiar. We grieve.

As a body we look sharply up should a newcomer deign to step on board, and we are silently offended by the unwarranted intrusion. This is our common bond, our pack mentality.

Sat opposite is the man in the beautifully tailored suit. He always wears his blue tie on Fridays and his yellow tie with the pattern of small silver diamonds on Wednesdays. Being Monday today, he wore his dark navy blue tie, matching his immaculately tailored Monday suit.

A year ago, a year ago today in fact, he had ventured to say ‘Good Morning!’ to me, with a pleasant smile and a nod of the head. However, I was so taken aback by this breach of our carefully nurtured tram protocol that my throat seized up, leaving me unable to reply. Not a word of response. I just stared. I was a coward swayed by the hostility of the pack.

He has said nothing since, not a word or gesture, and I, in my turn, have remained silent but always wishing I had the courage to return the greeting, one of these days.

Damned fool! Why couldn’t I have just answered him, said ‘Good morning’ back, made some effort to connect?

His newspaper rustled as he pressed his silver topped pen against the folded black and white page. He always gets off just after the Stevens St. Bridge, where he drops his paper nonchalantly onto his vacated seat. He had his routine and I had mine. I pick up his paper and check my crossword answers against his. Cheating, I know, but all’s fair on the tram. There we have different rules, my friends and I.

There was a change today. The man in the beautifully tailored suit, with his dark, navy tie, stood up just before the Stevens St. Bridge. He dropped his paper softly onto my lap without saying a word and walked to the platform doorway. The train began its curvature move towards the bridge and at this point he turned to me, looking me straight in the face.

‘Good Morning.’ he said hopefully, with a sad smile. I looked at him, taking in all his features for the first time in two years. On the tram there is the unspoken rule that says you’re not to look at each other, not in any real, human sense that is.

‘Good Morning.’ I replied, feeling my heart swell with unfamiliar compassion. He smiled at me, this time in relief, the sadness now disappearing from his face. As we passed over the Stevens St. Bridge he stepped forward off the platform and disappeared.

As a woman screamed I looked down at his paper, still sat in my lap where he had left it. I turned it over to the crossword page and then I saw it, his last note, written in capitals in the answer squares.

‘I love you Sophia. Please remember the time you loved me too. Goodbye.’

No name. Just a suit, a navy tie, an abandoned newspaper and a final ‘Good Morning’ from the best friend I ever had.

'Who Needs Therapy? Collected Short Stories volumes 1 & 2' by D. Scurlock (that's me!) available now at Amazon Kindle store. Hope you can buy, enjoy and share.