No matter how good you think you are, you will always be the villain in someone else’s story.
I don’t think I wanna do that.
Just be more open.
What the fuck are you doing?
You know you like it, you’re a slut.
I don’t like it when you spit on me.
Come on, it’s hot.
Please don’t hit me like that again
Don’t be so boring.
It really hurts.
Just a little longer baby, it feels so good. Please.
Please, I’m tired.
Don’t worry, you don’t need to do anything.
I’m not feeling it.
Fucking hell, what did you think we were gonna do?
Don’t leave any marks.
Why? You don’t want your other guys to know?
Arch your back. DOWN!
Did you take it off?
Come on baby, it feels so much better. Don’t you want my load?
No one’s really interested in me apart from a hook up.
You seem like the type who would cheat though.
Can we please use a condom?
What, you’re not clean? I am.
I couldn’t fucking breathe!
Sorry baby, I’m really sorry.
Yeah, I’m fine don’t worry about it.
Oh, you didn’t cum? I guess I can finish you off if you want.
I get to the platform with 2-3 minutes spare and take my usual place between the right side of the ticket barrier and the toilet block.
The mother who wears adidas originals as her comfy commuting shoes is standing and chatting with her three daughters who are already exceeding her in height.
They laugh and always seem to look my way as I take my place.
The two guys a little closer to the ticket barrier stand right near the edge of platform and seem to be talking business as usual. The look like they really know what they’re talking about and will likely tell you that you’ve got it wrong.
The train pulls up and today it’s one of the old Comeng trains that might be retrofitted.
I hop on and everyone is there doing their usual thing.
The two guys have gotten onto the carriage next to me but the mother and girls get on my carriage and stand slightly over from the door which is going to be opening every stop until North Melbourne.
The young, shorter guy who always wears shorts and no socks with his shoes but a down jacket is on his phone, probably looking through Facebook leaning against the door on the side of the train where the doors won’t open.
I pull out my kindle and start reading my book and usually I’m on the side of the train where the doors don’t open, preferably against a wall but that’s prime real estate which is usually all but gone by the time the train pulls in to Moonee Ponds.
At Ascot Vale about three friends of the school girls get on and they all greet the mother who slowly steps back as the circle opens, the new arrivals join and she takes a step back. The mother is now going to spend the rest of the time I’m on the train looking in as an outsider while her daughters start talking about a world far from her own. Every now and then the mother will try to make eye contact with someone in the circle before pulling her phone out to play candy crush or some Harry Potter mobile game.
One day, one day.
At Newmarket the girl with olive skin gets and assumes her usual power stance in the middle of the carriage. This girl gets on the same connecting train with me at North Melbourne. She generally doesn’t take her backpack off even when the train is crowded and for that I’m kind of not a fan.
At Kensington the young boy gets on with either his mother or father. They both carry his bag for him while he looks out the window of the train door and rattles out observations about the pattern of train departures from North Melbourne. The school bag his parents carry is nearly as big as him.
At North Melbourne a bunch of us get off and proceed up the stairs. It’s always the guy with the shorts, no socks with shoes and the olive skin girl who end up on the same platform with me, the others continue on the loop.
Just as I get to the top of the escalators, like clock work the young guy with some kind of physical disability is making his way along the rail of the concourse before heading down.
There’s never enough room on the middle escalators so you can’t really stand to the left or people get annoyed as they rush for their trains bound for Southern Cross or Flinders.
The Metro lady is standing with her microphone pleading with people not to congregate around the base of the escalators and move down the platform.
My side of the platform is quiet and I wait for the 7:28 train because I usually just miss the 7:22 train unless it’s one or two minutes late.
There are skeletons eating hamburgers talking about marriage and the company. They have translucent, milky white skin and are draped in chiffon cake clothing.
She is being told by the television that her partner will cheat on her and she will need to work on forgiving that kind of behaviour because it’s inevitable.
After revealing he is 175 centimeters and 60 kilograms being told by a friend that he is in fact a bit on the large side. It’s such a waste, your face is so handsome but your body doesn’t match!
See you again means never see you again.
She gets violently drunk at a social gathering and vomits mainly liquid with the few pieces of lettuce she had over the course of dinner. She doesn’t want to get any bigger because the guys won’t like it.
They ask him everyday why he’s single because he’s such a catch. They just don’t get it.
Crammed into a train carriage with hundreds of sad faces and empty eyes.
They have so many things they want to do but their heads are foggy and they can’t get up.
Bound by rules, upholding them when they are watching but breaking them when we are anonymous.
She has collapsed against some cold, beautiful skyscraper, crying and vomiting because she did everything like they said and she’s still unhappy.
Even though it’s a Saturday night and tomorrow is his one day off, he can’t stand the thought of a another week. On the edge of that train platform with the blinding light of a rapid train approaching he closes his eyes and falls into the light.