Stranger Tom

“All the best, son,” the man in the bus shelter called out. “Enjoy yourself.”
Tom looked confused. The man slouched back against the Perspex shelter and raised his beer can in celebration. Tom was carrying two bottles of wine. “Happy New Year to you too,” said Tom, extricating himself from the discomfort of the situation.
More and more this was happening to him. More and more he was misreading and misunderstanding the world. People - strangers - were coming up to him, speaking to him. Had he become somewhat approachable in the last six months? Had the tried and tested frown begun to slip? Had he in some way encouraged this aberrant behaviour?
Just last week, coming home on the train, he was reading a new book by one of those suddenly widely-loved authors named Jamie Austin. The short novel, called ‘Into the Everdark’, exposed the reader to the shadowy underworld of an unspecified city neither present or past, just sometime, somewhere. The heroine, Miss Nowhere, is revealed to the reader in snatches, much like the brooding city itself.
Tom must have been halfway through the story and the author was yet to allow him to know anything concrete about Miss Nowhere or her circumstances. It seemed at times that the character herself was not sure, that she was searching for answers as much as the reader, perhaps as much as the author too?
Putting the book away into his bag and standing, ready for when the train came to a halt, a voice reached out before him, saying: “What do you make of Miss Nowhere then?”
This strange phrase had somehow leapt from the imagined realities of the page and now inhabited the train with a fearsome magic. Tom lifted his eyes from the flap on his bag to seek the owner of the tongue which questioned him about Miss Nowhere. Who was this dark conjurer, this possessed mind?
A man, tall like Tom, with a smart coat and a black woollen hat pulled tight over his head, grinned back at him. Tom said nothing, his mouth slightly open but not really feeling like doing any work, his arm though still jerked to grab an overhead bar as he felt the train decelerate.
“I got it for Christmas,” the smart man said. “I love his other books, but I’m not sure about this one.”
The train stopped and the door slid open.
“I’m liking it, liking it.” said Tom, suddenly deciding to take part in this play. “I’ve not read his others, though. Sorry.”
The man beamed and leaned back against the Perspex divider in the carriage and Tom hurried from the train. The wind blew in icily from the coast, attacking his ears, so Tom pulled on his woollen hat.
“Something’s very wrong with me,” said Tom to himself.