I was on on the northbound train wishing I’d brought a book with me.
At Union, concert-goers poured in, and amongst them was a putrid smelling couple who—despite my fast prayer—decided to sit next to me.
The woman, whose eyes looked like they had been stung by bees, smelled of liquor, and the man was holding onto two plastic bags full of empty cans.
I wanted to change my seat, considered leaving the train and taking another but it was already so late in the night that I could not afford to prolong my journey without risking missing the last bus at the last station of the line.
“Brother,” the man said, to me. “How many more stops until Yonge?”
His eyes were green and hair was long and blonde and oily and his sunglasses sat on top of his hat. I looked up at the train’s map, counted the green lights and turned to tell him: “Seven.”
“Thanks man,” he said. “Those are cool glasses by the way. I’ve never seen ones like them before.”
He looked like a veteran surfer in a movie from the eighties: one whose prime had passed without any significant achievements, but whose pure-hearted kindness touched everyone who came in his path, as long as he wasn’t angry.
“Thanks,” I said, thinking of what to say in return. “They were free technically. All I had to do was pay for shipping.”
“Right on,” he said. “There’s a good feeling on this train.”
“I agree,” I said. “It feels like a party.”
“So this will bring us back to Niagara,” she asked me.
“Niagara?”
The next station is Yonge, Yonge station.
“That’s where we’re from,” he said. “Have you ever been? You should come visit us one day.”
He stood up and handed her one of the bags.
“Take care,” he said to me and then to her: “This is our stop.”
After the door closed and the train began to move I looked out the window and saw both of them on the platform being handcuffed by police officers.
I pushed my glasses up my aquiline nose.
I had a feeling they wouldn’t get back to Niagara without a fight.