Man On A Train

There's a man in the tram bay directly across from me. 
He's overweight, in a sweat stained electric blue shirt with tattoos up his arms that look as though he's quickly sketched them up in a spontaneous moment and shoved the wrinkled sheet of paper in the tattoo artists face and grunted 'I want that'. 
He's not all there. Mentally, that is. He's fidgeting and anxious. 
It's late and I make sure he doesn't see my curious and fearful eyes watching him. 
I'm small and careful not to get into trouble, I'm afraid of those in society I can't understand. Those who are bigger and who in a wrong mood could get angry and hurt me. 
I don't know if he'd hurt me. Maybe he wouldn't, maybe he would. 
He's tossing a purple box wrapped in plastic, rolling it mid air between his hands and all of a sudden he tears at the plastic feverishly and rips the box open. The insides suggest it's a corsage and I try and imagine the woman he might offer one to... But quickly I see it's a perfume bottle. 
He sprays it on himself sniffing vigerously and the feminine scent contrasts with his brutish build. A man sits in front of him so I can no longer see so I begin to type this up in my phone so I don't forget. 
He's shuffling awkwardly into a jacket suggesting it's almost his stop. I dare another look and he has a smoke in his mouth, prerolled and waiting. 
His hair is greasy I notice. 
And I think of Tim Winton's words I'd heard only hours before, class is the one politically correct thing people are afraid to talk of. Class is something no one speaks of, no one jokes of. It's there but never acknowledged. I agree to a point but his words make me think of just how different this man across from me and I am. I don't really acknowledge it further though because at the next stop, he's gone and the one after so am I.