rePeaT run-ins

What a treat. The late faces few and far inbetween-no bus in sight--empty stop. Priorities mistaken, 304 door shut even later. Bread and cheese, a rolly, borrowed pod, packed plastic green with plans. Cherry on my tomatOes-off and out.

Stressed and heavy-double bag and lag. Bundled to uncomfortableness this day. This journey. This morning, my wrist can barely rotate... my armpits are stuffed. It will be even harder taking the armor off. Prepared.

Phew. Upminster 1 min. Back in pulse, self inflicted-growling. I walk to my spot. Same spot by the beam missing tiles. Candy cane tape. Far enough from the Barking and work goers huddle. Too early for me. Too early for a jaw flap. Disappointed, yet again, with that ancient concept of time flying. I am low by the yellow line, my skin is drooping.

Then-a treat. The digital book man! Waiting, in my spot..no, our spot. Not a word ever spoken- many journeys shared. I have particularly noticed previously- Him, reading a digital book in a caramel leather case. A giant graham cracker. Always poised, matching the digi book user's profile. Preppy with a lip curl. No pages to turn, no smell of second hand seemed a shame. He stares. He stares at me now as I write this. I'm grinning with ease and looking at his face.

Temporarily, forgetting about my rush.

Writing without looking. He is my opposite today, possibly less so than the absence of words scream. At my jumbled writing, my page, he stares. Without kaleidoscope eyes of that Beatle, he cannot see, but strains. Still pen to paper I wait for his rise. Finally. He looks up. Horizontally, into mine---and quick! Quickly-an eye shift from mine to the wall (his right), to the openness of the train, his left...and back down to his book. Expressionless. Clearly a fan of the marble game. I lose to win every time.

Right, so he's looking at his book.Newness. To my surprise-not his digital delight. A mere paperback. Shiny. "Dude Where's My Country?" Where about is his country? Are we Moore of the less? A shuffle. A crinkle.. crinkles to his left. He stares.. I look..

It's 19 and flesh, tiny mice in flats.. yesterday's opposite. Today's was more fun. Her feet still cold, sadly I realize yesterday's mistake. At 19 ish she is not as whimsical as I interpreted her to be. She is crossed and greasy. Shouting upset and turmoil. Hopefully, I am wrong again.

Doors open, digi-man disappears.

Colorful purple, orange, bright blue woman sits... We share the hue of this blue. Ahh... intensely she reads thick pleasure. Filled with anticipation, only a tiny pinch of pages until it's done. Accomplishment around the bend. The last page.

One stop to go- I see another familiar. Same mid age as colorful, she is long. Perfectly groomed. Molded and sprayed. Blondish. fox-like. Pitch black lenses perplex. Smileless. We exit at the same.. Wait, nope, today she didn't.

Does anyone else notice, or care? Is it just fascinating to me? 7 million people in this city...

Westwardly, two more recent random run-ins from Sunday work. The repeat count today lands on four. No, five. One of the two locked eyes as we figured the familiarity. Aha, we got it. Finishing up a long days work.. it doesn't seem that interesting anymore.

Green west, now red west...Ah.. Liverpool St. Station...human arrival and departure. The evening race for empty seats.

They crunch in. Suit with long wooden-hooked black umbrella and stilt legs lunges forward. Only took three steps, when most would require five. Almost diving for that one and only bum rest... and a semi head first crash into the vertical red pole.

"Go on lad, that's the spirit!"
All worth it for the seat.