F-0030 A memo from the day I came home with someone whose face I can't recall

(A page from a pocket notebook. No year is written in the date field.)

2/17

Writing this down before I forget.

On the way home, the usual local train. Until we reached Kirino, someone was sitting next to me. That much is certain - our shoulders touched at some point, and they gave me a small nod. It may have been me who nodded first. At the vending machine on the platform I bought two cans of coffee. One was mine, and the other - had I been asked for it, or did I mean to hand it over? The second can is still in my bag.

What I remember

• A navy sleeve. One pill of fabric at the wrist
• The voice that answered along. Neither low nor high
• When we got off, they were the one who stood up first
• The ticket gate. I went through, there was a short pause, then once more. No one else should have gone through. Like only the sound came late

The face won’t come. Whether there were glasses won’t come either. I have the feeling I called them by name, but what I called them won’t come.

I think it was someone I knew. You don’t buy a can of coffee for a stranger.

Tomorrow I’ll take the same train. Even if they sit down next to me, I probably won’t know.

I put the can of coffee in the fridge. I’ll leave it unopened.