On the tram
The tram stops at Fettercairn. A man steps on, wreathed in smoke from a just-discarded cigarette. He smells faintly of last night’s beer. And he smells of cigarettes — though not faintly. His face looks like it’s seen more than its fair share of fights. His fists are clenched in what I feel certain is a near-perpetual anger. Anger with the world. With himself. With anyone or anything that catches his eye. He takes a seat and stares furiously out of the window.
The tram stops at the next stop. Belgard. A man steps on, wreathed in smoke from a still-lit cigarette, smouldering on the platform behind him. The breeze comes from a different angle here at Belgard, but I feel certain that he too smells of last night’s beer. And cigarettes. His face has also taken plenty of punches. His fists have also doled them out.
He spies the first man, sitting with his back to him. Tap tap on his shoulder. The first man turns… his eyes wary.
“Where are you off to?” asks the second man.
“Court.” replies the first in a voice shredded by smoke.
The second man grins as he takes a seat opposite the first. “Me too.” he says.