Again, the train brakes, coasting into the station. Engine exhales and tracks metallically scream. The sound of bats taking off outta hell.
I look to my left, and there’s another night train regular. Mousy and thoroughly unthreatening, he’s an ageless man who wears turtlenecks and oversized jackets that hang loosely from his shoulders. His frame is nearly 2-dimensional, his moustache frayed like a well-used toothbrush. Blond skull sits cartoonishly on lanky shoulders.
He’s got long-ish hair, messenger bag, tiny rosebud mouth, blonde eyelashes and wire-rimmed glasses. Hopelessly unfashionable. There’s always a knowing, friendly glint in his eye when he sees me. He’s a regular that recognizes other regulars.