Road Reader

You know, it worries me more than a little realizing how willingly I'd embrace the 15-minute city thing if it wasn't some mandated government rot. The truth is, I like being home. Don't get me wrong, I love travel, but being properly away, not 30-minutes away. While there are good parts of the city, they're few and they've lost appeal. I try, as I travel, to take the chance and observe people, but the truth is, people aren't always very observable. So often they're lost in their TikTok or Facebook or whatever.

So when people get boring, I use long roads to read. And don't you just love that? It's the only reason for longer journeys - gives you a chance to catch up on your reading. It's one of my favorite things about traveling by train. Trains are ideal for reading, in my book. But so is public transport.

These past couple of days, I've been to-ing and fro-ing on various errands, and packing my Kindle. You know, reading on the bus to and from high school is one of my few cherished memories of high school (before I left it). I loved reading on the bus downtown and pretending it was taking me someplace else. Being 14. Imagining myself in Renaissance Italy, watching Cesare Borgia on the battlefield. I like books the same reason I like planes - they take me someplace else. I miswrote it as 'tame', except no. Books know better than to try.

My latest, I've been sinking my teeth into the newest Peter Hamilton novel, which is the first book in a duology. It's called Exodus, I think, and so far it's not wildly different from his other books, but it's certainly nice. To let him take you away now and again on some spaceship far away. One thing about this guy's books is that they're freaking massive, so I'm trying to chip away at it any spare momment, and what better way to spend 30 minutes on transport or 15 minutes waiting for a friend?

I was actually reading when I caught sight of him. Pretending to read, but really I was watching the crowd getting on the tram. I'd paid my fare, but I still like to look for the people who check your ticket and give you a fine. Even when I pay. Old habits. And I saw him get on and knew I liked him, his old-fashioned, elegant coat, his thick-rimmed glasses. Bridge of his nose, book under his arm. Tall like a movie actor. Jeremy Irons, or perhaps James Cromwell.

Handsome in a quiet way. An oblivious way. Unlike me, he wasn't minding the traffic. Only searching for a soft, quiet place to land. He found it immediately. Saw him navigate the crowded tram with the practiced ease of an older man, skirting around iPhones and negotiating careful big, obnoxious shoulderbags. Prop himself against a vacant pole, like he had weight to spare. He didn't. He was himself rake-thin, like a Christmas ghoul, but charming in a subtle, sophisticated way.

It's too easy to fall in love with them, and I find myself staring without really meaning to. Watching the back of his head like Johnny Depp just got on. Searching for him when I change my position, having younger men, curious-about-me men chase down my gaze and frown. You've caught yourself in this, little girl? These old-man dregs?

He fascinated me. All readers fascinate me. I always check their title, and I tried to check his, but was either too far or too back. I could only ever observe him at an angle, like a story I wasn't supposed to know. Only made me want to him all the more. The book he was reading, whether he was married or widowed. How he felt about being quiet in a world that suddenly got so loud. How many more books he hoped to get in before his time ran out. Was that a cruel thought? And sure, aren't we all dying, and many of us not clocking in any books at all?

I tried to return to my book, but the truth is, reality shook me. This man who'd crossed my field of vision like an enemy soldier, had shaken me. Snagged my eye on him. Invited me without meaning to, my curiosity, my eyes. I wish I was brave enough to tell him he still catches the eye of pretty young girls. Wish I didn't have to get off. Wish I could lean in, inhale the tobacco and dust of his coat, and whisper,

here's to you, road reader.