She was pale and washed out, seemingly hungover or in a slightly drugged daze. She lolled about in her seat, tendrils of yellow hair in contrast to her bright orange shirt. I didn't watch her too closely; she was quiet and seemed in need of sleep.

When the train pulled into Flinders Street Station, she got up and gathered her belongings - a bag, maybe paper but probably plastic - and made her way towards the door. I noticed her smiling a gap-toothed smile to herself, and I ventured a longer peek. Our eyes met and she smiled again, noticing my soft wine-red jumper. "Soft," she murmured quietly. "Like velvet." She reached towards my arm and grasped a handful of sleeve. "Thin. Comes apart easily." I nodded in agreement and she let go. As she stepped off the train, she said, "You have a good day."

I could only murmur, "You too," wondering both what had just happened and why strangers don't talk more often.

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