The man leaned over on holding his tattooed arm. He looked through the bars of the end seat in the middle of the train car. His shirt was striped and his name contained in the oval shaped stitching that was typical of a serviceman or mechanic. He stopped staring and leaned his head on the cold bars, looking through the window on the other side of the car. One cold not see a thing or a small detail through that window while the train was at cruising speed. It was an abyss. He was feeling that way. The dirt on the tips and edges of his shoes and the greasy black stains on his fingers made his day what it was. It was the same every day. He smelled of a little smoke. Nothing was in his pockets, even the one in his shirt, but a receipt for something he had bought earlier. He held the bag with the toys in it between his legs.
On The Way