Dear Woman Eating Pad Thai On Train,
I first became aware of this new assault on my nostrils as I was considering how idiotic it was to have chosen the seat right up next to the window. Sure, the window seat on the train has its advantages, but I forgot that Sydney trains decided to place their air conditioning vents on the window side.
Yet, immediately following this observation, during a routine breathe, I was rewarded with an inhalation that was not stale autumn train air.
For what I smelt was a roughly-$10 Thai meal.
I craned my neck, then, searching for you. My book I placed upside down, balancing it upon my thigh – its words and the imagery they conjure up of minor importance to me now.
And there you were. Well, at the very least, there the back of your head was. Brown. A bit of blonde at the bottom. Not really much to tell. Back of heads are hard to discern back stories.
You were bent low over something. And as you raised your head and arm I saw the forkful of Pad Thai rising to be met by your mouth, then stomach, and finally, appetite.
This lead to a raft of complicating emotions. I am pissed off at myself, and I am hungry. Usually, one is working as a result of the other, but now they’re working in tandem.
In glorious, brown-noodled tandem.
I would love to ask you for some, but that would be weird.
But just know that you have helped pluck my mind from this hypothermic existence; you have taken me from cold commuter to a hungry man filled with hope.
Kind regards,
Q
Matt Querzoli was inspired to write this for obvious reasons. Follow him or his randy publication if you liked the post, or even the bloke himself if this tickled your proverbial pickle.
