Fleeting encounters

Two girls walk towards the back of the bus, where I am sitting, my backpack at my feet and my bookbag on the seat next to me. The bus is full. They are looking for spare seats. One looks like she will sit next to me so I begin picking up my bookbag to move it to my lap. She falters, and I think she has chosen another seat. I put the bag back as she sits. Instinctively I put my hand on her back, as if protecting her. Her skin is warm beneath her shirt. We both apologise at the same time. I move the bag and she sits.

Five guys - all in their mid-twenties - sitting at a table outside the cafe at uni. One calls another a "fat shit". He isn't fat. The insulted one has a wry smile on his face. He stares at the first guy. They are all really hot. The first guy gets up, hugs the one he has just insulted, says "I love you, man". The other guy says "Yeh, I love you too". I walk past and get into the lift.

A middle-aged man - greying, tubby, wearing braces to hold up his pants - stands at the front of the classroom organising papers before the lecture. His hair is thinning, the bald area covered in a comb-over. His brow is damp with sweat. We call him Professor Cuddly-Bear; it is a term of endearment. I walk up to him and say "My name's Dan. You got an email about me?" It is not a question - I already know the answer. "Ah yes, Dan, I remember." He reminds me of Harold from Neighbours, only less annoying. "That's fine, Dan, all set." He smiles at me. I take my seat and wait for the lecture to begin.

I get on the bus - backpack on my back, book bag over my shoulder - walking slowly because my legs hurt. The driver smiles at me. She is thirty and pretty. She takes my money and gives me the receipt and I take a seat. She looks in the rear-vision mirror and checks I am seated before she drives off. I think that is very kind; other drivers don't do that.

Two guys - in their twenties - wait at the library counter. They are filling in forms to become members. They are impatient, shifting their weight from one foot to the other. The two librarians are serving other customers: one is having problems with the photocopier, the other wants to use a computer. One of the men says "excuse me". The librarian helping the woman with the computer finishes and comes over to him, takes his form and starts reading. She says "there's no need to say excuse me, I know you're here." Her polite voice betrays annoyance.

An old man - maybe 70 or 75 - sits next to me on the train. He doesn't have that "old-person" smell; he smells of aftershave. He is wearing a deep blue jumper. His wife is sitting in the seat in front of us. She reaches back her hand to her husband, clasping a ten dollar note. He reaches for her hand, pushes the note back into her palm, attempts to close her fingers back around the money. He doesn't want it. Their hands argue, he pushes her whole arm forward, away from him, I think it might have hurt her. I say "Excuse me, sir, may I have a quick look at your timetable?" He falters, hands it to me. I open it up and he says "See across the top there?" - indicating the to the timetable, to the top of the page - "that tells you the direction." He notices I am looking at the Lithgow-Central, Weekend timetable. "The one you want is further on in the book." I already know this but feign surprise. "Ah, yes, of course." I find the page, the information I wanted, hand the book back. The man asks me where I'm going and I tell him. He says "Let me see ... That would be about 3.20?" I say yes. He tells me he is going further up the mountain. I smile. I put the headphones back in my ears and he says something, I smile at him. He keeps reading his book. Soon after he and his wife find a seat together.

A woman and two children sit in the seat in front of me on the train. She was about sixty, the boys three and five. The boys fought for a position to see out the window as the landscape rushed by. I leaned forward, spoke to the woman, "Do you want to flip the seat over? The boys can have a window each". She smiled, "Are you sure you're ready for that?" I laughed. I nodded. She told the boys to stand up while I flipped the seat over. I moved to the aisle seat. The older boy sat in the window seat opposite me, the younger across from me. The woman asked him if he wanted to sit by the window. He said no, I think he didn't want to sit next to me, a stranger. Five minutes later I saw another seat free and moved. The woman thanked me again. The little boy sat in the window seat once I'd left.

There are two women - in their fifties or sixties - in the lift at the train station. They both smile as I get in. I see someone else walking towards the lift and press the button to keep the doors open. The woman enters the lift and I recognise her, she owns a second hand bookshop in town and has known me since I was ten. We are on first-name terms. I say "hello", friendly, but she ignores me. The lift descends and everyone walks out. I say "hello" once more and she recognises me, her face brightens. "What are you doing walking with a walkingstick?" she asks. "It's the fibromyalgia", I answer her, "makes my legs weak." She nods solemnly. "Is that part of the ..." she falters, trying to remember the name of the illness. I finish her sentence: "CFS. Yes." I ask her "It's your day off today isn't it? Were you in Sydney?" I know it is her day of already, her shop is closed on Tuesdays. "Yes", she answers, "I spent the weekend in Sydney." I say "cool". We've reached the top of the small number of steps at the street. She starts walking in a different direction and I say "see you later". She doesn't reply.