At my eye level, his hand encircles the pole as the train weaves and bobs.
At any other time it would look like a fist prepared for a punch.
But here on the train it’s like a human seat belt, preventing him from toppling over as the train jerks to life.
Others are unaware.
They don’t notice the texture of the skin on his hand, or the way his arm is braced as if expecting a fall.
They don’t wonder, as do I, where he might be going, or what would happen if he suddenly let go of the pole.
Would he fall?
Would anyone help him?
He looks down at me as I lift my eyes from studying his hand and he smiles.
I feel the colour rush to my cheeks as I smile back, wondering what he might think of me, studying his hand.
A hand that I think would make a lovely sculpture.
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