They stand talking to each other on the platform. Both: short-cropped, brittle hair, winter coat on over the suit, the jacket, longer, sticks out from under the coat, a large packed backpack on their backs.

I get off the train and walk to the steps. In front of me walks a man with silver-gray hair. He is wearing a black nylon jacket, black pants with a crease, black cotton sports socks, and those solid Ecco shoes.
He confidently holds his thick computer bag in his hand. He must have brought home a lot of papers.
He reminds me of someone. Taut. Inflexible. Straightforward. An architect.

The next day, he walks past me again. Usually, he is all in black, as I just described, but this time, he is wearing a deep, dark brown suit.

The lady is always already on the train when I board. She has an iPad on her lap. Earbuds in her ears. She plays Candy Crush. Always. The full hour the trip takes.

At station Z, the blind man boards the train. Usually, he can sit in his regular window seat. But sometimes, that seat is occupied, and he has to find another seat, somewhat awkwardly. Bladderman immediately stands up before the blind man to offer him his seat.

The blind man listens to something on his smartphone, which he operates with a special device.

He gets off at the same station as me. With sure strides, his cane in front of him, he finds his way down the platform, up the stairs, and into the crowded station.

Then he is gone.

Bladderman keeps his briefcase on his lap. He uses it as a substrate for his Sudoku. A bag and a coat lay on the small table before him. He puzzles intently and fills in the numbers with concentration.

Every day, between stations C. and Z., he gets up. He takes his coat over his arm and takes his bag and briefcase in his hand. Packed, he walks out of the compartment and to the restroom. After a few minutes, he returns and sits back in his seat. Every day. Between stations X and Y.

Sometimes, he makes an uncomfortable chat with the Candy Crush lady.