Every weekday morning I rise at 7.15am, I shower, I dress, I eat a light breakfast of granola and chopped apple, drink 2 cups of strong instant coffee while checking my email, then leave the house.
I walk 8 minutes to the train station where I board the 8.10am Guildford to London Waterloo. I board Carriage F and take my usual window seat at the table. Used to be that a silent couple would sit opposite, each in their headphone and smartphone world. I’d occasionally stare at the woman and her girlfriend and think about their sex life. Would they be able to separate from their devices long enough to interact in such a way? I’d grin at the thought.
It was 3 weeks ago, a Tuesday, when, instead of the Separate Couple I was presented with a young man, no older than 19 or 20, wearing all black, carrying a sports bag, sat smiling in front of me. No headphones. No screen evident.
I did the polite face-scrunch greeting mastered by the British over decades of awkward practice and fumbled for my own headphones in my inside coat pocket.
“How’s your morning?”
I didn’t respond to the unusual vocal sounds. I kept foraging.
“Lost your headphones?”
I took pause. My heart-rate sped, anxiety filled my stomach, my breakfast revolving.
“Good thanks. How’s you?”
“They’ll be in there somewhere mate.”
“I’m sure I put them in last night but…”
“I’m well though, thanks for asking - I’m Afemafuna - Affy my friends call me.”
He extended a large hand, fingernails painted purple.
I tentatively removed my hands from my jacket pocket, wiped my right hand against my chest, a habit formed when I once had a real job, and hesitantly shook it. He smiled broadly.
“Doyle. Good to meet you.”
“Yeah, good to meet you too brother. Doyle your first name or your surname?”
“First. Mum’s Irish.”
“Ah, mothers! Mine’s back at home in Nigeria. She still asks me if I’m eating properly, you know? Even at that vast distance. With those miles and oceans between us. Are you eating vegetables, Affy? Are you meeting anyone, Affy? Well, now I’m meeting you, Doyle. I’m very pleased to meet you, Doyle.”
I felt a smile grow.
“Are you eating your vegetables, Affy?”
He laughed with rare glee, head thrown back for volume.
I looked around, with nobody sat at either side of us he seemed to be upsetting no-one. I settled.
“I eat my vegetables, Doyle. Do you eat your vegetables though? That’s the question!”
“Five a day. Well, more like three sometimes.”
“It can be hard to treat yourself kindly” he nodded.
I had to agree.
Wednesday.
“Good morning Affy, how’s your day? Have you been eating your vegetables?”
Silence. A quizzical expression.
“Everything…alright?”
“Good morning, sir. How are you?”
I smiled, my eyes narrowed.
On Thursday I almost missed the train. I’d stayed too long in the shower, ruminating. Idiot. I ran onto the platform and just about beat the bleeps. The previous morning slipped from my mind momentarily as I approached my seat, sweating and uncomfortable. Affy was sat in my seat, front-facing. I sighed, taking the seat opposite.
He smiled and nodded politely. He popped in his headphones and closed his eyes. I could hear the tinny vibrations of reggaeton as he drifted.
I stared, shifting in the seat in which I had not been made to sit before.
On Friday he was in my spot once more.
As the train pulled away I indicated toward his headphones, which had been firmly planted in his ears since before my arrival.
He pulled them out, shimmering sounds pouring into our space.
“Yes?”
“Affy. You don’t remember me?”
“I’m sorry sir. How do you know my name?”
“I’m Doyle.”
“Pleased to meet you, Doyle”
He proffered his had, nails purple.
I resisted.
“You…pretend not to know me….and take my seat?”
“I apologise, Mr. Doyle. I can’t be expected to remember every single person I meet each and every day” he laughed kindly.
The sound of chatter from the rest of the carriage, the movement of the train, filled my head.
He looked at me, leaned forward. He pointed a purple-painted finger at himself.
“Are you absolutely certain this is your seat?” he asked.
Michael James Hall January 6th, 2019.