Dear Sir, I have a complaint. Can't remember what it is.

He sat on the train eating peaches.
Tie loose and crumpled, he rubbed his hands together after he finished each one.
Rip peach in half, bite down on flesh, gently remove stone, bite down on flesh, 'patterns' I think 'we live by them.'
His skin was dark and olive, his arms thin and delicate;
'i used to be a gymnast.'
My mother talked to him about home, he said; 'I'll go back to see my parents die.'
I watched his eyes as he spoke,
small and dark brown,
he squinted
when he tried to think of something.
My mother laughed like shattering glass,
'whats money got to do with it?'
He looked at her through thick framed glasses,
'i fear you're right.'
Conversation trickled into choppy silences, burst back again quickly, slowly,
I thought;
'talking to people is like a dance.'
- - -
We reached our stop and got up, hasty and fumbling 'nice to meet you, what are the odds!' my mum called in a
rushed breath,
the man smiled his smile, then said it in a whisper while looking at an invisible speck somewhere beyond the window;

'it's funny, isn't it.'