Walking through Central Station at dusk, realism and something about time and location

A man walks past me, crossing Elizabeth Street on the flashing red man, the word ‘HATE’ emblazoned on his chest.

On his arms, the tattoo of love, he holds his girl like she’s the most fragile thing in the world, like if he lets go he’ll lose her forever.

His girl looks at his feet as they walk down a step, he pulls her closer and she, for one moment, seems to hold the whole solar system in her heart.

A man sits and holds his dog by the door, he smiles like that dog is the most important life in the universe, and he, the guardian of such, is radiant with pride at being the one to hold him.

The dog looks past at all the rushing people. Remembers what time felt like when he was younger, when the world seemed much bigger than this concrete world he lives in, but he wouldn’t give up for all the bottoms and tails and bones in the world, all because of the joy and pride in the way his man looks at him.

People rush past the man selling roses, eager to get home to the ones they love, yet only one passer-by thought that love might be better shown differently tonight.

His wife will be at home thirteen minutes before him. She will take off her shoes by the door because she’s so tired, stare into the fridge for two and a half minutes and boil the kettle. When he gets home, he will give her the rose he bought her, a tiny symbol that shows that he still loves her, even though he tripped over her shoes on the way in and stubbed his toe, even though her nails are chipped and she seems to be putting on a bit of weight.

That bit of weight is the secret neither of them know yet, though she suspects: that they are pregnant. The baby will be a girl, they’ll dress her in yellow and she’ll change the world in some way.

By the country trains, the orchestra of old men and old women are set up under the old ceiling, playing old songs to an old day. The night is still young, but the day is elderly, slow and wheezing its last breaths.

Smokers alley is silent, the bells from the church next door begin to ring, like the phones of people oblivious to sky, melting onto the buildings.

At the bus stop, a bus drives up onto the curb. The lady next to me turns and says ‘How about that, hey!’ as I grin like an idiot at what could have been.