In the company of men

Early one morning, I was standing on the train platform, staring at Mont St-Hilaire shrouded in clouds with the vague feeling it reminded me of something. Then I got it: it looked distinctively like my brain felt.
I lowered my eyes to my coffee cup and got caught up watching it cool. Then a rather low voice on my right said: “Hey.” *

I tore myself from my coffee and looked up to see a man standing beside me, looking at me intently. I’d never met him but he was a somewhat familiar sight, along with dozens of others, because we all took the same morning train. I wasn’t quite sure how one responds to “Hey” from a stranger. Had I known him, I would have taken no prisoners and answered: “Hey yourself”. I’m that direct.

In the end, I didn’t answer and just raised my eyebrows slightly in an expectant but polite look. He was so visibly uncomfortable that I almost felt like squirming for him. He sensed that more was expected and blurted: “I see you regularly on the train!”
That gave me a pause. Here was a man who saw me regularly on the train.

Was I supposed to congratulate him for his sharpness? Was I supposed to fall in his arms like a long lost brother? Was I supposed to shrewdly answer: “I see you too”? This was becoming more awkward by the minute. I gave him a vague smile and took a sip of coffee while my foggy brain tried to cope. I would have much rather been watching coffee particles cool.
He proffered his hand, like the least he could do after something as momentous as seeing me on the train was to introduce himself: “I’m Alain.”

Another bad strike. I have a notoriously bad record with Alains. The first one was my father, ‘nough said, the second one was a beloved boyfriend who went back to his junkie habits during our relationship, the third one committed the cardinal crime of boring me to death on our first (and last) diner.

Still, unwelcome as he was, I had to give this particular Alain credit. It must have taken up quite a bit of courage to come up and talk to me. I admire courage above everything else, even when deployed at my own expense. Just for that, he narrowly escaped the Ice Maiden.
“Brigitte,” I answered reluctantly, shaking his hand with a guarded smile.

The blessed train decided to arrive on that cue, and much relieved, we both dutifully turned to watch it, staring as if we had never seen a train arrive before. The doors opened before me and I felt it was time for decisive action.
“Have a nice day,” I said kindly but firmly in a tone that meant “Don’t even think about coming to sit by me”.
“Have a nice day,” he answered, and then walked away. He didn’t get on the train. Puzzled, I watched him trough the window. When the train left the station, I could see him walking towards the parking lot…

“What the hell was THAT about?” I inwardly asked my coffee as we sped away.
I don’t know. Not a clue. I haven't seen him since, fortunately.
There is no moral to that story. I still haven’t a clue. Who said that suburban life isn't fraught with danger and excitment?


* The whole episode actually took place in French but I conveniently translated it in English for the safety and convenience of my passengers.