I first saw him when I got on the train at Flinders Street. Have you ever passed someone, or glanced at them across a room to have a current of adrenalin surge through you? It seizes your gut, and rockets to the back of your throat, spiking your endorphins.

I walk away on a high, a big goofy grin lighting my face. "Wow, I must be attractive to that person". I strut off, on top of the world, arms wide, singing Julie Andrews' 'The Hills Are Alive With Music'.

Yep. That's me. The trouble is, it doesn't take long for me to plummet. My luck, the person stared because Vegemite or tomato sauce was smeared on my face.

At any rate, I hadn't seen Train Guy before. I'm pretty good at creating nicknames. It doesn't mean the names are good, however, you need to know him by something so you'll have to tolerate Train Guy for a while.

I made my way up the stairs into the open space of the top level of the station. A small boy threw a tantrum because he'd spilt his raspberry slushy on the glossy white tiles. His screams echoed against the high-walled interior drowning the voiceover announcing which train prepared to leave. His mother dragged him back to the canteen hoping to hush his cries with the promise of another.

I slipped my pass into the turnstile and trotted down the stairs leading to the platform. I love the crisp sound of footsteps on firm ground. It gives me a sense of the dramatic. I try to picture what the person behind me is like by the sound their steps make. Uptight and prissy or laid-back and slow, smartly dressed or not.

A thin harried man, with untidy clothes and long lanky hair, rushed past, caught me on the shoulder and almost knocked me to the ground.

He didn't stop. He didn't apologise.

I righted myself and huffed. Why would I even expect an apology?

A small Chinese woman bustled in front of me. I waited for her to get into the sleek modern carriage.

This part of city life gets to me sometimes. The pushing and shoving. No one seems to consider others, especially in the mornings and evenings. I've often wondered what it would be like to live in the countryside with not a soul to compete with.

The Chinese lady stumbled as she fought with her bag. A chicken squawked and popped its head from the opening. Can you believe it? A chicken. It continually poked its head up; she kept shoving it down. I've seen some pretty weird things on the train. A chicken is next level.

"Is gift for uncle." Her head bobbed like a fishing buoy in rough seas.

She must have brought it from the Victoria Square Markets. I doubted her story. Asian's are pretty good in the ageing department; they often appear much younger than they are but wow, this lady's skin could have been crumpled paper. If she had an uncle, he'd be lucky to be alive. Who knows? Maybe she'd endured a stress-filled life.

The train was busy for a Tuesday. I sat on one of the cloth upholstered seats. A burley-uniformed police officer walked into the carriage from the adjoining one.

The man who'd crashed into me sprang to his feet. His bloodshot eyes filled with fear. He stared at the policeman, wiped his hand across his sweaty brow then lurched towards the door, clipping the little Chinese lady. Her chicken squawked, and sprang its head from the bag like a submarine periscope, one eye on the Emo girl, with greasy black hair, sitting next to it. She screamed like a fishmonger's wife and bolted to her feet.

The officer made chase with a Taser. "Stop! Police! Stop, or I'll shoot!"

The atmosphere in the carriage changed from the gloomy boredom of people pretending they are alone, to ripple with the excited interest of a home team scoring a goal. The wanted man darted to the door.

People love that, don't they? Watching another's drama. It gives them something to tell their families when they get home. You know...

"How was your day, dear?"

"Boring...oh, but guess what? Some poor drug-addicted bastard got hit with a Taser. He thrashed and jerked like convulsing road kill."

"Oh really, dear? That's nice."

Another passenger put on his Superman cape and attempted to catch him. The escapee slipped from his grasp and stumbled onto the platform. The policeman made it out of the carriage before the doors closed. He reeled through the crowd in pursuit, huffing and puffing.

I settled in my seat as curious as everyone else still focused on the commotion, wondering what the man had done wrong. That's when I noticed Train Guy sitting on the bench opposite mine. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees staring at a mobile phone in his large hands. The ruckus hadn't instilled any curiosity in him. I wondered if he was deaf.

He appeared to be studying my legs through his dark hair. I positioned my bag to block any view in case the triangle of my knickers was visible. Every girl knows miniskirts aren't great privacy givers when you sit.

His calmness held my attention. I noticed an intricate tattoo wound around his wrist. It thickened as it flowed along the inside of his right forearm, highlighting prominent veins. That grabbed my attention. I love big hands and sinewy forearms on a man.

I studied the tattoo. The artwork was fine and delicate, a snaking pole, coiled with barbwire, vines and flowers. Perhaps it would end as a cross. It disappeared under the white fabric of his rolled sleeve.

He leaned back and stretched his legs in front of him. I focused on his arm, hoping his sleeve placement might change and expose the complete tattoo. When it didn't, I lifted my gaze to meet intoxicating green eyes highlighted by thick dark lashes.

The surge hit me. I swear someone thrust their hand down my oesophagus and squeezed my stomach from the inside. My breath wedged in my throat, and the scent of someone eating hot chips hit my nostrils. I turned away and pretended I hadn't noticed his good looks.

After a minute I looked back. He stared at my legs. I shifted one in front of the other to distract him.

His gaze trailed upwards then rested on my breasts. Embarrassed, I shuffled on my seat, sat at an angle placing my handbag against my stomach to shield myself.

I gripped the bag's smooth cool leather to calm the emotions thrashing my insides. His eyes were fixed on my features and I was sure, though his face showed no emotion, that he smiled. I held my breath, my body tense as I risked holding his stare, something I wouldn't normally do. City life makes you cautious. I cocked my head as if to say, "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

His phone rang to the sound of Nickelback's "Something in Your Mouth".

Train Guy tweaked his lips and then focused on his phone. I noticed a small star tattoo on the left side of his neck.

He answered, "Yeah," in a deep velvety voice.

Ah, he wasn't deaf. Why hadn't the earlier action interested him?

He glanced at me, laughed and said, "No... it went well." He answered a question I couldn't hear. "The view's better."

I guessed he worked in real estate.

The train stopped. People got off. People got on. The pungent smell of foot odour wafted past. It stung my nose. I held my breath until the pong faded.

I caught glimpses of Train Guy talking on his phone between moving passengers. He frowned, searched the crowd then said, "Yeah, sure."

Train Guy ended the call, slipped the phone into his pocket, slung a black canvas pack over his shoulder, and walked to the end of the carriage, through the door, and into the next. He was well-built, tall and broad-shouldered. I sighed and forced him from my mind, he'd be a prick like most attractive men were.

Do you catch a train home from work and people watch?

People watching is one of my favourite things to do and often they end up as characters in my books.  

The photo is my imagined Jasmine.

Words - 1362

Photo copyright - Gencraft.