Strangers on the Tram

By Mirela-Andreea Rotariu

Trapped in the bronze, weathered gaze of the trumpeter with no body, I willed myself to take a few steps back, realizing I had been staring at the sculpture for too long. It was a rather abstract depiction. Mounted on a lusterless, white pedestal, the figure’s hands stood erect holding the trumpet, fingers strategically positioned along the instrument, eternally frozen playing a soundless tune. The trumpeter’s head was also incomplete; nothing more but a face slightly tilted, lips shaped to blow on the instrument, eyes nearly closed in concentration, ears forever listening to the visitors’ critics and ivy’s whispering leaves. Perhaps he needed nothing more—the essentials to play were just enough to keep him content, lost in his music evermore. 

Turning on my heel, I began heading inside, leaving the backyard of statues behind. The building was a masterpiece on its own, an old giant made of stone covered in greenery, ivy growing profusely, contributing to a lush and romantic feel, adding charm and history to it. There was a sense of peace in this image, yet a haunting impression evoked from it, too.

Crossing the gallery to reach the exit, my eyes met the few whose interest had been piqued by the place. It wasn’t my first time visiting, yet each time I could not help but notice the wonderful exhibition hardly enthused any visitors. Such a wasted opportunity by so many oblivious passersby. The gallery required no fee for visitations, after all. Perhaps free experiences were no longer to people’s satisfaction.

The walk to the tram station was impressionably short—no more than ten minutes of passing through crowds with hands clutched on to phones or professional cameras eager to spend all of their money on more touristy sights. Although the monuments and landscapes were breathtaking, and it would’ve been a pity to miss them, an unyielding sense of sorrow rested over my heart. For some unknown reason, I felt sorry for them. Such a treasure waited for them right around the corner, yet they paid no heed to it, blindly transiting to reach the spots most popular on social media, swarming for hours in one place for a picture’s moment. Perhaps I felt more sorry for the gallery, though. Being overlooked could get so lonely.

Only a handful of people were at the tram station, each waiting for their respective ride to collect and bring them to their desired destination. Mine arrived in a timely manner as ever—the perks of living in a city renowned for culture and spectacular sceneries, perpetually visited by tourists, the kind of city that never sleeps.

There couldn’t be more than a dozen or so people inside the tram, and though so many seats were unoccupied, few were peculiarly adamant to stand on their own feet. I figured their stop might be next, or perhaps there wasn’t any reason for me to find to justify their action of standing up. Perhaps it was just a matter of preference or comfort. There was an unappreciated sense of pride in the act of standing on your own, I thought. 

It made me wonder what kind of people were those strangers I did not know who would rather stand up than claim the convenience of a seat in public transport after a long day of whatever errands. Perhaps they were the altruistic type, thinking of others’ needs above their own, leaving space for those more in need, those who may embark later when the tram gets overcrowded. Perhaps the intention didn’t even run that deep—they were just standing…waiting.

Her presence drew my attention, sparking a vivacious curiosity. I was nothing more than a moth drawn to the flame, impervious to the possibility of danger, tempted to submit to the chance of getting closer and closer, potentially engaging in conversation to invigorate the dullness of the ride. Alas, my feet proved to be more stubborn than my persuasion, refusing to yield to my heed. I felt restricted by this unwritten rule of not talking to strangers on the tram unless requesting directions. I didn’t even know if it was a veritable rule—it was just something people always seemed to do, except the elderly, of course. They were never coy about asking questions, disturbing the silent trip of the stranger sitting next. They were unashamedly inquisitive, leisurely sharing their intimate, precious life stories even to the less interested ears, speaking with the enthusiasm of a freehearted child. Perhaps they were simply joyful to be talking to someone, anyone. Even the kids lacked that unconstrained excitement nowadays.

She was standing up, her feet slightly parted to gain balance. The woman seemed to be in her late forties, rebellious, curly hair parted to the side, undeterredly brushing her shoulders. Creases lined the corner of her eyes, a pair of glasses resting on her nose. Infinite wisdom radiated from the depths of her serene gaze. Although she carried an outworn backpack, her appearance was far from ragged and ungroomed, preferring a casual style over something glamorous. There was an undeniable elegance in her simplicity. As for her tattered backpack, she certainly could afford a trendier one—she just didn’t want to. I gathered there must’ve been a sentimental value to the one she already had. Perhaps a gift from someone dear to her, or she could not bring herself to let go of all the precious memories attached to it.

Her concentration was directed at the book she held in her hands. It was a volume unknown to me, keeping its secrets a tantalizing mystery, for I could not get a glimpse of the title from where I sat. She was trapped in her lecture, committedly satiating her thirst for knowledge, devouring every printed word, every yellowed, brittle page within the plain, yellow covers of the book. 

I suspected she was an academician, a university professor revisiting the reading material for the upcoming seminar. Perhaps she was merely indulging in a moment’s peace, passing the time until she arrived at her stop. She could’ve been the furthest thing from a teacher—a surgeon, a lawyer, a librarian. The possibilities were infinite, for she was but a stranger to me to fantasize about her life, a stranger who I was never meant to see again. Venturing into making her acquaintance would’ve broken the spell of wondering, ruining the beauty of forging exhaustless stories of who this woman was. I did not need her to introduce herself to get to know her. I already knew everything I needed to know about her. She was the professor whose classes you eagerly attended no matter how tired or sleep-deprived you were. She was an engineer determined to pioneer an unexplored field in electrical engineering. She was a woman married to her anthropologist husband with whom she traveled the world and had two children. She was a childless cat lady, unapologetically free-spirited, and had an insatiable craving for learning and exploring new skills, new hobbies, new places, new people, really anything different from the familiar. She felt most comfortable outside her comfort zone. She was one of the strangers on the tram whose story I was at liberty to conceive however I pleased.

The tram stopped at yet another station according to its route. Perhaps I would’ve missed him completely if he hadn’t stopped a couple of seats ahead of me parallel to the side I was sitting on—the side with single seats. Her presence must’ve lured him to her, for he nearly stumbled back in surprise upon recognition, a bright smile growing on his face. They greeted each other beaming sincerely, and he bent down, offering a hug which she accepted warmly.

Despite there still being more than enough seats for him to settle, he remained in the same spot, standing beside the woman whom he knew, the woman whom he indubitably cherished, enjoying her company for as long as their journey would last. They were a lovely pair of pensioners by the looks of it. His hair had long transitioned entirely to white fashioned in well-kept, luscious waves while hers aged into salt and pepper straight strands. Their wrinkles told the most extraordinary adventure I yenned to hear. Eye lines spoke of laughter, of lively smiles and tenderness. The forehead bore worries from the past and present alike. Deeply engrained to outline the map of their travels through this life, their wrinkles were their memories collected across decades while unfairly reducing them to the superficial title of ‘old’ and the stigmatization and disregard it came with.

Such happiness emanated from the two as they lost themselves in conversation. I imagined they must’ve experienced a lot together, the echoes of their shared past nurturing the bond between them. Perhaps they didn’t get to see much of each other as they once used to, and now they felt obligated to impart as much news as they could in the little time they had to themselves.

Undefiled fondness poured into every word, every glance and whisper exchanged between them, their feelings perduring into time itself, sweeping from the moment they met to the here and now. The two made quite the delightful couple. No! Not in the romantic sense. They were far from lovers. Perhaps they were sweethearts at some point in life. Not anymore though. Not in a long time. I assumed they had been constantly teased by friends and relatives into rekindling their amorous relationship. 

They were beloveds, still, though in the sense of cordiality and friendship. They were neighbors from childhood, playmates on the kindergarten field. They were the classmates who always sat next to each other in school. They were undergraduates pursuing incompatible fields of study, yet eagerly rendezvousing with any given opportunity between lectures. Her hair tangled in the wind, sprinting to the place agreed upon, books carried in her hands as she’d always been tardier for losing track of time in the library. His coquettish smile deepening the well of his dimples upon her sight as he gifted her a single pink rose with each encounter. Perhaps he should’ve bought one before heading home instead of breaking his promise. I wondered if her heart splintered a little upon realizing she would not be getting her flower this time.

My stop came inevitably, signaling my time to get down. An inescapable feeling of dejectedness surged through me, waves of regret drowning all my hopes to the bottom of nothingness. The time for daydreams ended; reveries lost, bound to resurface nevermore. As I stepped outside the tram, a ridiculous thought dared cross my mind. I could not help but wonder what sort of stranger was I to those still on the tram, the stories they could’ve weaved about me—that was for them to never dwell on.

Mirela is an avid reader with an MA in American Studies and a BA in English Language and Literature. Her writing, a short story titled Requiem for a Ghost and an essay, Deviant Morality & NaNoWriMo, has been published in Down in the Dirt Magazine and The Brussels Review, respectively. When she isn’t writing or reading, she typically enjoys a fun yet impactful anime and likes to wander in the middle of nature.