A stranger, on the Sandringham line.

   "That's my cat," this older man - with a long, coarse ponytail - says as he suddenly reaches across and puts his phone in my face. 

   I look up from my book, and see a silky black cat staring back at me. I instinctively go "aww!"
   "Yeah, Priscilla, her name is," the man grins. "I had an Elvis once. Before her, y'know? Big guy, he was. Used to pull possums down from trees! Yeah, but after he died I got her, rescued. Named her after Priscilla Black, and well, Elvis' Priscilla. She guards me."
   I then unlock my phone and scroll through the camera roll, quick as I can as I've noticed he's starting to gather his belongings and is now glancing out the window. It'll be his stop, soon. "That's Harv," I say, showing him my best photo of the family cat; sat up, legs splayed, looking up mid-arse lick on the parents' bed. "My boy, back home."
   "Aww, wow. He's a beauty. Very distinguished, like?"
   "He's an aloof yet surprisingly sprightly old man," I nod.
   "Well, mind how you go. Have a great day!" My new friend and cat lover says, jumping up with his oversized sports bag and making for the train doors. I watch him step out onto the platform and tap his MyKi card on the reader, before returning to my book. Smiling, and thinking of home. 


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