This is the final installment in a series of vignettes inspired by travelers of the London Underground.
His round glasses slip down his nose and he pushes them back into place with one finger. He turns the page in his battered copy of The Three Musketeers and plunges further into a world filled with more interesting characters than himself.
There’s a hole in the sleeve of his brown tweed jacket and his hair is thin on the crown of his head. He can’t recall the last time he was noticed or regarded as anything more than a man who sits alone. Athos, Aramis, and Porthos keep him company, but cannot save him.
His silence screams, but goes unheard.
– – –
I try to blend in, but I’m never sure if they know my home is much further than the train goes. My touristy map is safely hidden in my purse and I page through the London Evening Standard with the same interest as everyone else. As long as I don’t speak with my foreign accent, maybe they’ll assume I’m part of the club. The woman next to me shifts in her seat. She glances at my sneakers and notices my hoodie.
My story is anyone’s guess.