Michael

On a twenty-six hour train journey I am sat next to a blonde-haired celebrity make-up artist.  He is heading south to visit his family.  'I don't do hugging and I don't do talking', he says by way of introduction.  'Do you drink?' he says next.  In his bag he has half a bottle of wine.  He pours me a glass and suggests a dinner reservation in the dining car.  I agree and he goes to book us a table.

He returns with another half bottle and offers some to the black girl sitting in front of us.  'Wanna come to dinner?', he asks, 'I have reservations'.  She accepts.

Making our way to the dining car, and jovial from wine, he picks up two more black ladies (one in her forties and the other in her sixties) to join our table.  The five of us squeeze into a booth made for four.  He orders three more half bottles.

'You're the ring leader', says the waiter to my seat companion.  There are carnations on the tables.  The food takes a while to arrive.  The ring-leader orders more wine.  'Liqour's on me', he announces and fills our glasses.  He tells us about his plans for adoption.  The black lady in her forties steals the carnations from the neighbouring tables for her boyfriend.  We are the last customers left in the dining car.  There is a small ruckus over the bill.

On the way back to our seats the ring-leader and the carnation stealer go in search of somewhere on the train to have a cigarette.  On his return, and at regular intervals during the night, he pokes me to keep me updated on the passengers around us.  An old lady opposite eats peanut butter form a plastic pot in the early hours of the morning.

After twenty-three hours, it is his stop.  He gives me his card on the front of which is a topless model.  I ask what the 'm.' stands for.  He gives me an answer.