"The Couple of the Tram" Script by Sebastien de Robillard

I don’t hate mornings, not at all. Sure, I would rather sleep in til 8:00am then have to get up 6:45am each morning, but that’s the way it goes. That’s the way it goes.

I sometimes read on the tram, sometimes stare out the window. Sometimes I am so fixated by whatever I happened to be listening to (at the moment, a neo-New Romantic Danish band) that I spend the entire trip with my eyes closed, engrossed by the music. Not everyone enjoyed my taste in music.

“That’s not music, that’s noise,” Marie says. She refers everything I listen to as "Dinosaur Music." Makes us both laugh.

Today, I was caught between the book (a slow, overly descriptive, Upper East Side story by a writer that should have made it far better, far more interesting and quite frankly, should know better than to publish crap like that) and staring out the window, when I saw them jump on. He followed her up the step, and he let her sit down first.

I checked my iPhone for the time -and to show everyone I had one-7:37 a.m. I looked at them for a few seconds; I did recognize these two. I saw them if I happened to catch this particular tram. I turned up the music on my pod and, head titled a little to the right, began to scrutinise. I should say, I decided to scrutinise them.

These two had just recently had a fight, that much was obvious. Couples, bickering or not, were hardly a new thing, but there was something about these two. Maybe the first fight, the first proper fight, the night before.

He pulled out his Ipod, a mini, and she did the same, a mini also. Probably purchased at the same time, probably had VERY similar tunes on each. He went to offer her a headphone, but she had already shoved both of hers into her pinna, deep. He looked at her, and reluctantly withdrew his offer. He looked rather sad, and she looked rather annoyed.

Another routine popped up. She absent-mindedly handed him her ticket and he scanned it in before either of them realised what they were doing. Her face became red, and he tried to appear frustrated by the effort, but he failed. He was so damn in love. She regretted their regime, I must validate my own damn ticket, she thought. Well, probably.

You could tell these two had their routines down pat. After breakfast, he would hold the door open for her, and lock it as she walked to the end of the pathway, waiting for him. They would walk, probably arm in arm, or perhaps hands inter-locked, towards the tram stop. They would sit at the same seat each morning and he would do the ticket thing. She would read a magazine she carried, and he would read some book, nothing fancy or very literary, like me. Probably some airport-bookshop-$29.95 (same price, doesn’t matter what country you are in)-fucking fodder-novel.

I continued observing them, noting down their little this’s and their little that’s. They were so similar, in size and appearance; they were made for each other. They didn’t look like they had much to contribute, to anyone really. They were probably very sweet individuals, not the sharpest tacks or brightest bulbs, but not the dumbest. They were probably polite, and shy. You would invite them out, but only because you were inviting everyone else out as well.

It was hard to imagine them ‘doing it’. A little like your friend’s 70 year old parents, weighing a couple of hundred kilos between them, you are sure they did sleep together, but you were also sure they didn’t. And if they did, was their intimacy?

Yes I am an arrogant, self righteous, egotiscal, grammar-bastardising narrator.

Each glared out a separate window, trying to ignore the other. Except of course when the tram would suddenly stop, or start, and they would bump into each other. Each time they rubbed up against each other, she would react with demonstrative annoyance. He looked so sad each time this happened. He had this puppy dog look that made you want to drown puppy dogs.

Yes I am an arrogant, self righteous, egotiscal, grammar-bastardising narrator.

Very little happened after this, and it was not until we reached Flinders Street station that it became awkward again. Just before the tram stopped, and my fellow passengers flooded out of the doors towards their fruitful, beautiful jobs, she squeezed his hand briefly and they both turned and kissed, pecked each other on the lips. It all happened so quick, and I almost missed it. The looked into each other’s eyes, I would love to have been closer for that. Anger? Frustration?

They routine had worked against them, fooling them into a brief, a very brief reconciliation. Their routine would not stand by ‘pissed off’, it would not stand for the ‘cold shoulder’ or ‘slamming doors’. Their routine politely told them where they could shove their feelings and reminded them why there were together in the first place.

It was beautifully awkward, when they realised this, looking into each other’s (probably) brown eyes. They were both embarrassed now, cheeks glowing red. A slight smile, maybe? I don’t know.

She got up and left. He didn’t look out the window after her.