THE STRANGER

i took this photo years ago on a train... i'd spotted the "you look tired" scribbled on the seat, and just when i snapped the photo, the man in the background yawned. i'd like to liken it to photographers capturing lightning striking twice in the same place.

an old man in a large straw boat hat got on my tram to Flinders Street station, and i first noticed him because he was talking to the Myki tap-on machine exasperatedly, praying that it would work. when it beeped at him, he gave a great sigh and shuffled over and stopped where i was sitting.

i moved to allow him to pass, and he sank into the seat opposite me with a large sigh. he was a stocky old fellow -- his shirt probably ironed meticulously by his wife each morning, tucked in at the waist over a rotund belly. he had nice shoes, i noted. suede. probably wouldn't have chosen to wear those on a rainy day such as this one, myself.

"Now," he said to me, "In eighty years you'll be like me -- tired, and out of breath once you climb a couple of steps."

i laughed. "I already feel like that some mornings."

the old man raised his bushy white eyebrows and waggled a finger at me. "Oh, no, but see, the difference is that you recover."

before i could respond, he waggled that finger at me again. "You shouldn't be talking to strangers. Especially strangers wearing hats."

while i laughed, he continued, "Now. My wife is waiting for me at Flinders, and if she saw you, she'd be very jealous. Remember what I said: don't talk to strangers."

and with that, he tipped his hat at me, smiled, and fell quiet.