He leans against me, fast sleep. I can’t see his face but his nails are long and not entirely clean. His back leans against me. Tentative at first, then entirely trusting. I wonder if he’s dreaming. If it were daytime I’d move away, but it’s the middle of the night on a station platform. The world is dark and silent and this stranger next to me is sleeping. So I let him lean.
I wonder if he’s a gardener, if that’s soil under his nails. I wonder how tired you have to be to fall asleep somewhere like this; neon-lit, unguarded, cold. Seven minutes to my train. Seven minutes of dreams I’ll never know about.