Vignette in F minor

or, something very short

“Have you ever noticed that someone who's walking and deep in thought tends to clench their fists?”

We were waiting at the station, slumped against the wall as people boarded a train on the opposite platform. You were in a pair of white tennis shoes and a loose grey t-shirt, the t-shirt tucked in at one side of your jeans and the rest of it billowing free, like a sail. It was a cute look, I had to give it to you.

“What?” I asked, realising my brain hadn't processed what you'd said. I was distracted by a pigeon scavenging for crumbs.

“When you're walking behind someone and they clench their fists, it means they're deep in thought. Haven't you ever seen that?”

I shook my head. “No, never.”

You raised your hand to shield your eyes. By now the sun had crept above the city's skyline, the rays scattering across the platform. You’d forgotten your sunglasses. You always forgot your sunglasses.

“Start looking,” you went on, pulling a weird face that soon relaxed into a smile. “Walk behind someone and soon enough you’ll see it. They’ll start clenching their fists.”

“Right,” I said, still distracted by the pigeon. It didn't seem to be having any luck finding crumbs. Try another platform, I willed, but it didn't seem to receive my signal, instead continuing to wander its repeating path, pecking fruitlessly at the ground. “I guess I’ll start looking.”

A couple made their way onto the opposite platform to wait for their train. They were laughing. Nearby, a woman was drinking a coffee. Possibly it was a hot chocolate. I had no way of knowing for sure.

“They’re deep in thought, I’m certain,” you said, your voice so low it almost required subtitles.

I lowered my sunglasses and turned to you, copying your squint. “Are we still talking about this?”

You shrugged. “It’s just something I’ve noticed.”

I pushed my sunglasses back up the bridge of my nose. The sun dimmed.

The pigeon flew away, landing on another platform. Perhaps it had heard me after all.

Our train arrived. The doors opened and we pushed off from the wall and made for the carriage. I walked ahead of you, clenching my fists.

---

Hello. Something short here. I felt inspired by

Ben Wakeman

’s recent and excellent short fictional portraits, along with

Daniel O’Donnell

’s continuous ability to write so precisely within 100 words¹. And, well, this is what fell out.

Semester has just finished. I am—as my students are so fond of saying—“cooked”, but I'm enjoying letting some ideas finally marinate.

Photo by Sneha Cecil on Unsplash

1. The above being clearly more than 100, but who’s counting? (Obviously I’m counting.)