Raz
Bluelighter
He finds a seat alone. He’s glad to be alone. He avoids eye contact with anyone else, it’s only polite. He never questions when it became polite to avoid reaching out, or when it became expected to pull away. He just accepts that it is.
He cranes his neck looking away from the glut of humanity, finding any blank place in the world to cast his gaze. His muscles ache from finding an open space to hide.
The rest of his senses cannot be diverted so easily, but they can be ignored for the most part. The sounds of a baby crying, another child who squeals with glee every time she sees a big red truck – these can’t penetrate the wall of mute disinterest he’s built around himself. The perfumed scent of an old woman who sits across the aisle, preserving herself from fear and time…it builds pressure in the air along with every other odor from the tram and its passengers and the world they live in; the world builds its own olfactory coccoon to keep him from ever having to venture outside of himself.
The tram shuffles to life as the light turns green, and once again the world outside passes by in its slow parade of mediocrity. Once again the same sighs and half-muttered apologies are heard from his fellow passengers as the vehicle’s sudden start forces them into one another. For a moment they are forced to touch, but at least they apologise.
Somebody sits next to him. He always hates it when someone sits next to him. He feels his space infringed and he moves away slightly. It’s a tricky job, because while it’s expected that he move away he should never make it obvious. Nobody wants to be confronted with their own Alcatraz nature.
The young girl who sits next to him is Asian, he can see her reflection in the glass divider in front of them both. She catches his eye just for a second before he looks away, and he catches her smile. Just for a second, then he looks away. She wears no perfume, she has no smell other than herself. Her skin hasn’t learned yet that it’s wrong. Her leg is brushing against his, not in any deliberate manner but just because she doesn’t know that she’s not supposed to. She’s listening to an ipod, small white headphone buds in each ear, and she’s humming softly to herself. He recognises the tune:
He’s a real nowhere man
Living in his nowhere land
Making all his nowhere plans
For nobody
Her eyes light up unexpectedly, and he sees that she’s waving to another man, one down the other end of the tram. She stands up and moves through this inland sea of people, and soon she’s immersed in it. Soon she’s gone and he’s left in his isolation once more. His leg is warm where she touched him, but that too soon fades. He’s glad when it fades. He tells himself he’s glad.
He cranes his neck looking away from the glut of humanity, finding any blank place in the world to cast his gaze. His muscles ache from finding an open space to hide.
The rest of his senses cannot be diverted so easily, but they can be ignored for the most part. The sounds of a baby crying, another child who squeals with glee every time she sees a big red truck – these can’t penetrate the wall of mute disinterest he’s built around himself. The perfumed scent of an old woman who sits across the aisle, preserving herself from fear and time…it builds pressure in the air along with every other odor from the tram and its passengers and the world they live in; the world builds its own olfactory coccoon to keep him from ever having to venture outside of himself.
The tram shuffles to life as the light turns green, and once again the world outside passes by in its slow parade of mediocrity. Once again the same sighs and half-muttered apologies are heard from his fellow passengers as the vehicle’s sudden start forces them into one another. For a moment they are forced to touch, but at least they apologise.
Somebody sits next to him. He always hates it when someone sits next to him. He feels his space infringed and he moves away slightly. It’s a tricky job, because while it’s expected that he move away he should never make it obvious. Nobody wants to be confronted with their own Alcatraz nature.
The young girl who sits next to him is Asian, he can see her reflection in the glass divider in front of them both. She catches his eye just for a second before he looks away, and he catches her smile. Just for a second, then he looks away. She wears no perfume, she has no smell other than herself. Her skin hasn’t learned yet that it’s wrong. Her leg is brushing against his, not in any deliberate manner but just because she doesn’t know that she’s not supposed to. She’s listening to an ipod, small white headphone buds in each ear, and she’s humming softly to herself. He recognises the tune:
He’s a real nowhere man
Living in his nowhere land
Making all his nowhere plans
For nobody
Her eyes light up unexpectedly, and he sees that she’s waving to another man, one down the other end of the tram. She stands up and moves through this inland sea of people, and soon she’s immersed in it. Soon she’s gone and he’s left in his isolation once more. His leg is warm where she touched him, but that too soon fades. He’s glad when it fades. He tells himself he’s glad.
