“When I was 21, I met this girl. She did fancy me. And I? I was in love with her. She was terrific—Irish, with long, curly ginger hair and a scattering of freckles on her pale skin. And her eyes? Her eyes were like the sea. We were together for a while and… Man, that was love!” He coughs, covering his mouth with a huge, weathered hand.

His gaze drifts across the railway lines, settling on a woman talking on the phone. He smiles for a brief moment before his thoughts pull him back to his story.

“I don’t know what happened. She left me for another bloke. He was 27, I was 21, she was 20. I shouldn’t have let that happen. My world’s been empty since she left.”

My train arrives, but I can’t move. I need to hear the rest. I put down my backpack.

“Oh, where are my manners? My name’s Michael, and I must apologise for my appearance.”

We shake hands. His massive palm hides mine, making me feel like a child.

“I’m in pyjamas because I ran out of the hospital this morning. They took away my regular clothes. I need to find myself a pair of jeans or something—I can’t be wandering the streets like this. I look ridiculous, I'm sorry.”

I feel small on the bench next to him. He is enormous, his presence both calm and unshakeable, with a white beard that cascades over his chest like a frozen waterfall.

“How did you end up here, Michael?”

“I used to drive trains—the kind you see here on the underground. I never had kids, never married. But I loved.

My sister, my only sister, died last year of leukaemia. I’m the last one in my family, you know. After me, there’s nothing. Nobody will know we ever existed...

My sister didn’t have kids either… She’s gone, and apart from me, there are so few left to remember her. But me? I used to have good love. I shouldn’t have let her go. God, she was amazing. I miss her so much. There isn't one day I don't think of her... ”

Another train rushes in, its noise carving a hole in his story. He stops, watching the passengers shuffle on and off. Everybody looks down; everybody is rushing somewhere. I should move too, but I can't. I'm trapped in this story.

“I’ve got this condition—well, it’s not really a condition. I’m an alcoholic, you know. I’ve been wasting a lot all my life. Nobody owes me anything, I know that, but the government took away my pension. It’s all bonkers. I was ill, and one day, they made me sign some papers, and now it’s all gone. I live with a friend.”

He looks down at his hands as if trying to recognise them as belonging to someone else.

“Since always—in school, at work—I got picked on. Now, in the hospital. I don’t know why people are so mean. Why won’t they just let me be? I was the tallest in school. I was the strongest. At work, they never had a uniform to fit me. Now they pick on my beard, my face, my hat. What’s wrong with my hat? It keeps me warm.”

"Can I take a picture of you, Michael? I want to remember this and maybe write a little story..."
"Sure, why not? But you shouldn't waste your time; there isn't much of a story..."

He smiles for a second, but I fail to catch that moment. Right now, his eyes are wide and clear, searching for answers he may never find.

Another train slides into the station. I know I should board. I wish Michael good luck and hand him a banana. I feel stupid for doing that, I should have done more, something else. He closes his eyes and whispers a thank you.

I jump onto the train just as the doors close.
Michael smiles and waves, a gentle giant fading into the blur of the platform.
I take a deep breath and try to fit all this into my head.