An average Wednesday afternoon

He doesn't have a job, but at one glance you would instantly assume he has the intelligence of a Bookkeeper or Philosopher. His brown chord trousers were swaying back and forth with every stride he took up the train carriage, and everyone surrounding him was simultaneously thrown into a sinister staring competition. His top hat was simply placed, almost balanced upon his head. Automatically, I listed all the possible objects he could keep inside that space between his head and his hat. Everything came to mind from a box of matches to a pet mouse. 

His long quilted jacket reached his ankles, from my calculations he was approximately 188.88 centimetres tall. Approaching slowly; he chose his seat at the very last minute, opposite me. He crossed his right foot over his left knee and rested those long, spindly arms. One on the window, the other over the top of the seat. He looked young in the face and the eyes, but his demeanour suggested otherwise. His spectacles were identical to those of Harry Potter's... just slightly more battered, as though he bought them second hand only to complete this look.

He tapped his fingers. He watched me. As if expecting word vomit from my tight mouth, as if we were old friends taking a train ride home together. I stared through the window the entire time. It may not be clear, but I could see my entire surroundings through the corner of my right eye.

30 whole seconds passed before he took a book out of his vintage brown leather satchel. It had no title, an anonymous white hard back with orange pages. For all myself and the innocent public knew, he could have had a hardcore porn magazine slipped in the middle of these pages. Maybe that was the reason for the smug expression upon his face. But who even uses porn magazines anymore?

Perhaps five more minutes passed; at least every 60 seconds he moved his eyes from the book, to the window, to me. He knew I was avoiding looking him in the eye. I felt smug, too. He lifted his right foot, placed it back on the floor and spread his legs as you would before a squat. Naturally, I glanced at him and this position had created a snug bulge in his crotch and the threads in his trousers were merciful. He was smug enough for the both of us.

We approached Fasanenpark station and I spotted the ticket officers stood on the platform. Safe mode kicked in, I was up and ready to leave in 3 seconds. Disappointed I was forced to cut this man's performance short... He watched me shuffle off the train into the biting cold. 20 minutes later my train approached in the same direction and I couldn't have been more thankful to escape this shivering abyss.

Next stop, Unterhaching. The same human being, the same man I have just described in these 476 words was stood on the platform waiting for the same train. He stepped onto my carriage. How did he know?