She is sitting here in front of me but I can’t see her eyes. I suspect they are triumphant. She’s got the window seat by the table and she put her handbag on the seat next to her. Dark glasses surrounded by unhealthy looking folds of skin, headphones on and knitting something green. Must be in her fifties. And pitiful me trying to find seats for a family of four with two kids so we can have our lunch on the train. No chance here, dear! The bag stays. I see her muttering to herself something. Yes, she is triumphant. How on Earth do I expected to love people? Her, or that rebellious youth, empty eyes, feet on the seat, horrible telephone music as loud as the device can play. I don’t know. Maybe if they told me about their life, they struggle, their hopes, I would.
I think I’m growing to be like that “bag” lady. She is like my mother, full of old scars. Hatred for old, hatred for young. Oh, dear… I really want to be better that this. But is it possible?