Uncertainty

She smells like cigarettes and salt-and-vinegar chips. The oddest combination Shannon has ever encountered.

A beautiful little brunette angel sits next to the woman. It seems odd to describe a young boy as brunette, but that’s what he is.

A dark-haired angel.

‘Dark-haired’ is poor grammar, he thinks.

The boy’s father is a beautifully rugged Indigenous man. Shannon is probably the only one he knows who’d call a man – and an Aboriginal man at that – beautiful. Just like the boy, though. His eyes are slightly cool, but not frosty. More like a protective, shiny coating.

The brunette boy snuggles up against Shannon’s side. Shannon pretends not to notice. He wonders whether they notice that he notices.

Black and white, even yellow, like him, didn’t - shouldn’t - make any demarcation between them. Yet somehow, this seems separate from appearance.

The mother was not Aboriginal, but Caucasian. Shannon self-berates for noticing.

No – for noticing their relationship.

The brunette child bumps against him again.

The Caucasian mother curses.

“John, stop! Move over here. You keep bumping…”

They’re trying to give the impression of politeness, and smile when Shannon glances up.

He says it’s okay; he has little seven year old cousins. They don’t take the conversational bait. The mother smiles thinly.

Finally, another train arrives and people get up to board it.

The family stands, but don’t get on. They move to the newly vacated bench next to him.

Shannon sighs and smiles to nobody.

Just then, a girl of about ten strides along the platform. She slows slightly, gazing inquisitively. She whispers to her mother.

“Honey…” The mother murmurs in a sort of calm embarrassment. “No, don’t, point.”

Pause.

“Yes, yes it’s a lady.” Softly, but not softly enough. “Now, let’s get this train!”

Her enquiring eyes flicker.

Yes.

But she’s not sure.

© Amy Ma February 2006.