He sat in the bus shelter, placed his briefcase on his knees and slipped a photo from the front pocket. Then his whole body language changed. His shoulders sagged and I caught a searing flash of raw pain in his eyes before he closed them. The low winter sun glinted off a tear in the corner of his eye. This he dashed away, then glanced swiftly either side to see if anyone had noticed. The chubby housewife nearby was busy trying to keep her many shopping bags from disarray. Meanwhile a teenage goth nodded into cyberspace to the pace of his blaring ipod.
Seemingly assured that he was alone, the object of my focus leant forward with his elbows on the briefcase staring at the photo for several minutes. A bus approached and he straightened up. When the bus had passed he remained in his seat. I noticed that his shoulders no longer seemed to fit his expensive grey suit and that the golden tan appeared to have paled somewhat. He stared straight ahead. Another bus passed and then another. He didn’t move.
I paid for my coffee and ordered an expresso to go. I crossed the street and stopped at his feet. Handing him the expresso I said: “Tough days require strong coffee.” He looked up a little bewildered and croaked, “Thank you.”
Not wishing to intrude I smiled and walked swiftly away. Once out of his sightline I halted and looked back. He was staring into the murky depths of the tiny paper cup. All at once he lifted the cup and drained the dark liquid then sagged back against the bus shelter like an exhausted tramp.
As the next bus approached he stood, squared his shoulders and adjusted his tie. The mask of assurance descended over his features and figure. He turned and strode off in the opposite direction. I admired the aura of middle-aged success. But I no longer envied him.
—Terri Martin
23 June
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