|sent from: Waterloo Station, London, UK. destination: London, UK|
The postcard reads:
He fell heavily to the floor of the train, rowsing the morning commuters from their half-awake slumber. He had been hunched over heavily in his seat, scarf wrapped around his head and eyes, but whether [the] train lurched or it was the inevitable path he was on I don’t know. He sat on the floor for a moment. He may have been drunk, or drugged, but mostly he seemed really, really, tired. He lay dazed, mouth slightly slack as though his jaw had lost the ability to keep closed. He sat back into his seat, fumbling for his phone that suddenly burst to life. He didn’t seem like a commuter, or a partygoer. With his scarf again held over his face he yawned and let out a groan like a bear growl stretched out long. A smell of alcohol came through the cabin. As the train emptied, his neighbour moved, clearly having regretted her choice that morning. I didn’t think he’d noticed, but like a falling statue, a moment later he was flat on his back across the two seats. He had new-looking converse sneakers on. At Waterloo, someone asked him if he was ok. He grunted an affirmative and we left him to it.