Paper Trail
Pass it on
‘It’s in here somewhere,’ I huff at the train conductor looming over me.
I upend my handbag, pour everything out onto the table, sending pens, a lipstick, loose change, a scrunched-up school newsletter, and my reading glasses off in different directions. Why am I carrying around so much crap? I sift through the debris, eventually finding my ticket. I thrust it at the conductor and he grunts before waddling off to the next carriage.
‘Excuse me. I think this is yours.’ The tattooed girl sitting opposite me holds out a crumpled piece of paper.
I blow hair from my eyes and narrow them at the girl as I bundle everything back into my bag. She smiles, still holding out the paper. I take it and flash her a polite smile.
Smoothing the paper flat on the table, I discover it’s the receipt for the coffee I bought earlier. Through the flimsy paper, I notice something on the reverse. I turn it over to read a handwritten note accompanied by a smiley face:
Slow down. Take some time for yourself.
Pass it on.
I frown and rub a thumb across the lettering. The ink smears, leaving a smudge on the paper and my skin.
Time for myself? Yeah, right? That’s usually taken on the platform waiting for a train or standing beneath the shower when the kids are eating or asleep.
I glance over at the girl. Her head is buried in a book and she has headphones clamped over her ears, blocking out the world. Did she write this? I watch her for a second, waiting for a reaction, but she continues to read, ignoring me. I open my mouth to speak but then stop. Surely, I’d have seen her writing it? I crane my neck to look down the aisle after the conductor but he’s long gone. Maybe the Barista who served me coffee earlier…?
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I manage to retrieve it before the call goes to voicemail.
‘Yes. Yes… Getting off now… No, I’ll be five minutes… Yes, okay… No. I finished the report last night... Yes. Yes. I know…’
With my phone wedged between my cheek and shoulder, I gather up my things and fight my way through the aisle as the train slows for the next stop.
I can’t remember the last time I visited the work’s canteen. I usually take lunch at my desk or striding through corridors between meetings. Today, I’ve taken forty-five minutes and counting for my lunch. My phone is on silent, stuffed in my desk drawer upstairs, and I’m on chapter three of the thriller that I’ve been meaning to read for the last six months. It’s not the best thing I’ve ever read but I’m enjoying the escapism.
My lunch has been eaten leisurely and my coffee is cooling.
Greig from accounting walks past me, catching my eye, and takes a seat a few tables away. I can’t be sure if his name is Greig or Craig, but I do know that I’ve spoken to him in passing a few times. Just pleasantries, nothing more than that. He’s married or at least engaged.
I mark my place in the book with the reciept/note from this morning and pick up my coffee. I take a sip and watch Greig over the rim of the cup. He takes a few minutes to wolf down a container of cold pasta with a plastic fork while swiping through screens on his phone. He only looks at what he’s eating twice, and he barely chews. The food goes in and then down the gullet, swiftly followed by another forkful. Any morsels that escape his fork and plop onto the table are gathered up between pincer fingers before he drops them into his mouth. When he finishes the pasta, he washes it down with chugs from a can of Red Bull.
I put my coffee down and rummage through my handbag for a pen and something to write on.
