Chocolate cake for breakfast

I slice myself a thick piece of Coles chocolate mud cake and take a large bite followed by a swig of lukewarm instant coffee. On my third bite, a chunk of frosting slides off the fork and lands right in the middle of my white shirt.

“Shit,” I mutter and run to the kitchen sink to dab at the stain with a blue cloth. It only swirls the cake deeper into the shirt leaving a brown coloured wet patch in the centre of my chest.

Fruit flies hang in the air surrounding the sink. They appeared after Lola left. I can’t figure out if I’m doing something to encourage them, or if Lola had been doing something to prevent them, but it is as though they have taken her place in our apartment.

When Lola left, she said she was concerned I was a sociopath. Her reasoning was that I didn’t cry once during our seven year relationship. It was something we joked about. She would start sobbing during a slightly sentimental TV ad while I remained dry-eyed even when my grandad died. When the latter happened, she seemed concerned something might be wrong with me. But plenty of guys didn’t cry. It wasn’t a big deal. I think she was just miffed that I didn’t cry when we broke up.

My phone alarm goes off, signalling it’s time for me to leave for the train. No time to change my shirt.

The sky is black as soot and I shrug off the early morning chill as I make my way towards the station. It's 5.50am. I haven’t been up this early since … well, probably since coming home from a night out. And I hadn’t done that since before Lola moved in.

It’s been five hours and fifty minutes since I turned thirty. Yesterday, Gary emailed asking me to be in the office no later than 6.30am so I can be present for a Zoom meeting with our company’s UK branch. I didn’t remind him that it’s my birthday today, and that I’d quite enjoy a slow, restful easing into the day. There’s something unsavoury about a 30 year old man reminding people about his birthday.

There’s only one other person waiting for the train at Erskineville train station when I arrive. A wiry man, around my age, wearing white over-ear headphones and pacing back and forth. I’ve avoided the hordes commuting into the city and can enjoy the train carriage all to myself, the only benefit of travelling to work at this ungodly hour.

There’s a deafening thunderclap and without warning; it begins to bucket down. Weighty drops of rain land on my head and shoulders as I run and duck under the only covered part of the long platform.

I shake my head, sending droplets of water in all directions like a drenched dog. Damp shirt, wet hair, chocolate stain - I look as if I’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards, as Grandad used to say. This city wasn’t designed for wet weather.

Now I am standing right behind headphones guy but he doesn’t seem to notice me. Nor does he seem to register the rain for that matter, he just continues taking a step forward and then a step backwards. Probably trying to up his daily step count.

I glance at my phone, half hoping to see a birthday text or even a notification someone has written on my Facebook wall. But my phone says the time and nothing else. I indulge the fleeting thought of wondering if Lola will get in touch. Unlikely.

I hear the sound of the 6.05 train approaching and instinctively, take several steps forward. Headphones guy does the same, but steps beyond the yellow line and continues walking right to the edge of the platform. Some people are so bloody impatient for a seat.

Music blasts through his speakers. It’s so familiar.

“Hmm, hmmm,” I hum to myself, trying to remember where I know the melody from.

“I’ll often stop and think about them….”

I lean forward, trying to grasp snippets of the lyrics. I feel weird leaning in towards the back of his head, like a creep with no care for people’s personal space, but he doesn’t seem to notice and it will bug me all day if I don’t figure out the name of the song.

In that instant, headphones guy leaps towards the train tracks as the train comes charging into the station. On instinct, I reach out my arms and grab the air in front of me as if I’d been holding fine china in my hands and it had suddenly escaped my grip. My left arm wraps around his waist and slides up to his neck as he falls so I have him gripped in a chokehold. I yank him hard and we both fall backwards, his elbow colliding with my nose as the train pulls to a stop in front of us.

The next few seconds are hazy. The train driver steps off, yelling something out to us as several passengers pile out of the carriage and run over.

One of the passengers pulls headphones guy off me. Someone asks if I’m okay and gently lifts me into an upright seating position. Drops of blood are mixing with the chocolate stain on my white shirt and I hold my hand up to my face to discover I am bleeding.

An elderly lady wearing a colourful crocheted hat bends down and shoves a tissue in my hand. It looks as though it’s been folded and unfolded about a hundred times and I don’t want to use it, but she’s nodding encouragingly so I dab at my nose to be polite.

Headphones guy no longer has his headphones on. A young woman has his shoulders in a firm grip and is asking him questions, her face brimming with concern.

Oh god. I hope nobody thinks I pushed him. The passengers would’ve seen me hovering right behind him with our heads unusually close to one another before he began to fall.

As if hearing my thoughts, the elderly lady taps my shoulder.

“You are a real hero,” she says.

The headphones are lying on the concrete next to us. They must have fallen off in the scuffle. They’re connected to a small blue iPod. Old school. The song is still playing, I can hear it clearly now.

“In my life I love you more,”

I almost snap my fingers. “In My Life” by the Beatles. It was my grandad's favourite song.

****

The computer screen is a jumble of spreadsheets, symbols and numbers. My eyes won’t adjust. Gary said I could take the day off but I don’t want to sit at home with my thoughts and the fruit flies.

“Mate pop this on,” Ben says, shoving his gym shirt, a black singlet with the word ALPHA written across the chest, into my hand. Ben, who sits next to me at work, has the same job title as me in common and not much else.

“I don’t think Gary will let me wear a gym shirt.”

“It’s better than a blood soaked shirt with a shit stain or whatever you got on there.”

“It’s chocolate,” I mutter.

“I can’t believe the day you’ve had,” he says, shaking his head. Neither can I. I’d spent two hours at the train station giving a statement to police, allowing paramedics to inspect my nose (which thankfully, isn’t broken) and fielding phone calls from media outlets, who’d somehow got my number. I’d missed the Zoom meeting, which irked Gary no end, but when I arrived at the office with dried blood stains on my nose and shirt, the entire accounting department put a pause on their morning routine to crowd around my desk and I had an engrossed audience while I recounted the morning’s events.

“I wish someone had filmed it. You’d be going viral on Tiktok right now,” Ben says, as if that is the only reason anyone would want to stop someone from jumping in front of a train.

I don’t know what to think. I’d asked one of the police officers to update me on headphones guy. All I know is his name is Jude. That’s all I know about him. That his name is Jude and that this morning he tried to off himself at Erskineville train station by jumping in front of the 6.05 to Circular Quay. And the only reason he is alive is because I managed to grab him just before he jumped.

I replay the events that led up to the incident. If Gary hadn’t called me in for a Zoom meeting, I’d never have been at the station at that time. If it hadn’t started raining, I wouldn’t have been standing next to him. If he hadn’t been listening to music with his headphones at full volume, I wouldn’t have inched closer. And if the song hadn’t been my grandad’s favourite, I wouldn’t have been within arm’s reach and able to grab him. It’s just like that film with Gwyneth Paltrow where she wears a brown wig. Sliding Doors I think it’s called.

Man, I feel weird.

There’s a giggle from the other side of my cubicle. Katie and Lacey from HR are smiling broadly, shaking their heads back and forth like two bobbing budgies.

I almost look over my shoulder to see who they are grinning at. Until now, they have never so much as glanced in my direction. In fact, in our entire department's direction, prompting Ben to suddenly materialise next to me.

“So impressed with you mister,” Katie says.

“What you did was amazing. It’s all anyone’s talking about,” Lacey says.

“We’re getting coffee from downstairs, what’s your order?” Katie asks.

“Um thanks, long black I guess.” I respond. I pull out my wallet but Katie dismisses it with a flick of her wrist.

“I knew you were going to say that,” Lacey says.

They disappear down the stairs, whispering conspiratorially.

“I literally hate you right now,” Ben mutters. “If only that guy had been at St. Peters train station instead of Enmore station.”

I don’t bother correcting him. My hands feel damp and I rub them against my trouser legs. I’ve never loved attention. It certainly doesn’t feel bad being told I’m a hero, or amazing. But it also doesn’t feel entirely justified.

I read a news article once about a man who had physically climbed onto the train tracks to save a woman who was lying there, all while an incoming train was hurtling towards them. Would I have done the same?

I glance at my phone. It’s past 9am. Nothing from the police officer. And still no birthday messages.

I glance up and flinch as I notice Lacey, sans Katie this time, holding a coffee towards me.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you,” she says. “You’ve had quite the morning.”

“Uh, all good, thanks.” I take the cup from her and immediately overcompensate by taking a sip. It’s scalding hot.

She leans forward and grips my hand. My burnt tongue feels like a piece of sandpaper.

“I just wanted to say, I’m a very perceptive human. I sense things. And I think you were destined to save that man’s life today. It was fate,” she says in a low voice. Before I can respond, she turns and walks back to her desk.

I’ve never believed in fate or destiny. I’ve always thought people like Lacey were a bit woo-woo. I avoid Kombucha drinking, crystal healing, moon worshipping, sage burning types.

But a few things had happened this morning that were hard to explain. Rain had fallen unforecast from the sky, forcing me towards Jude. My grandad had died a week ago and Jude had been listening to his favourite song, which gravitated me even closer to him. What did it all mean?

A gmail notification appears in the corner of my screen and I open it. An invite from Katie. Birthday drinks tonight at Opera Bar for … Corey from Marketing. Working in payroll, I already know his birthday isn’t for another week.

Ben, Gary and I frequently find out about work drinks several days after the fact, even though we’re reassured everyone is welcome to attend them. At least this time I’m invited in advance. But there’s something depressing about celebrating someone else’s birthday on your own birthday.

And 30 is significant, apparently. The funny thing is, the older I get, the less I know myself. I thought it was supposed to be the other way around.

I don’t remember choosing the life I have now. One day, I was eighteen and graduating high school. Academically, I’d made a conscious decision to be an average student so I could go unnoticed through my final year of school. Being at the top or bottom percentage of the school year meant you stood out and I wasn’t ready to stand out.

That isn’t to say I didn’t harbour ambition. At 18, the future had seemed full of endless possibilities and I thought once I figured out precisely what my hopes and dreams were, they would come true. And one day, I’d be ready to stand out from the crowd.

But suddenly, I’m 30, working in the same job I’ve been in for eight years where I’ve never had a promotion or significant pay rise because I’ve never asked for one. I live in a two bedroom Newtown flat with a landlord who refuses to do anything about the recurring black fungus growing on the kitchen ceiling. I have no children or pets. I’ve had one long-term relationship, with Lola, who during the course of our relationship, reserved for me looks of such severe disappointment I thought I would wither and die.

30 wasn’t old. But I no longer felt how I did at 18, as though I could make anything of my life. Perhaps that feeling had been an illusion, simple naivety. I wasn’t one of those people who wore their cynicism and distrust of the world like a badge of honour, proudly telling anyone who’d listen. But I didn’t get my hopes up much anymore. I didn’t have expectations of things because more often than not, I’d get let down. And because of that, life was easier in a lot of ways. I’d taught myself to lean into the mundane. I trained my brain to enjoy life’s little pleasures, instead of seeking big highs. Which is why every so often, I ate chocolate cake for breakfast. I’d look forward to a gin and tonic with a wedge of lime in the evening, my morning long black, leaving work at 5pm, steaming hot showers, sliding into a freshly made bed after a long day, finishing the daily wordle and losing myself in a gripping television series. Would I describe myself as happy? Truthfully, probably not. But I wasn’t unhappy either.

I wasn’t trying to end things, like Jude.

* * * *

I’m standing at Erskineville train station for the second time today. I didn’t expect to be back so soon, yet here I am. Heading to Opera Bar for Corey from Marketing’s birthday drinks. I tried to get out of it but Ben wouldn’t take no for an answer.

So, I went home a bit early and changed into a pale blue linen shirt that Lola bought me for my birthday last year and a pair of vintage Levi jeans she’d encouraged me to buy at a flea market in Newtown, then I took a shot of tequila and walked the short distance to the station.

It’s dusk and the sky is various shades of orange, a deep rust at the edge fading into a pale colour, like the skin of an apricot. It’s 6pm so the train platform is crowded with people. It’s been twelve hours since the incident and still no word from the officer about Jude. I want to know how he feels. I want to know why he did what he did. I want to know if there is something that connects us to one another. If only I knew his surname, I’d find him online and contact him directly.

The train appears around the bend and on instinct, I suck in my breath. I close my eyes for several seconds and when I open them again, the train is right in front of me. This morning, it felt like hours went by as it pulled to a stop but this time it arrives in a blink.

I glance around the platform. Nobody jumps. Everyone does what they are supposed to do. People text, listen to headphones, talk to each other or stare into space. Nobody attempts to jump in front of the train. The doors open and we all pile on as normal.

By the time I arrive at Circular Quay station, it’s dark outside. Ben is waiting for me and so over excited that he makes us do a lap of the train station to calm down before we make our way along the seawall to Opera Bar. Everyone else went straight from work as they didn’t need to change out of blood stained clothes.

When we arrive at the table, we are met with cheers and approbation. Someone shoves a glass of red wine into my hand. I don’t even drink red wine. It’s so noisy. Everyone asks me to recount the story from this morning and I overhear someone telling the bartender I save lives for a living. There are so many rounded eyeballs staring at me expectantly. They look like little white peeled onions floating in the darkness.

I feel like I’m breathing in other people’s breath and need air. I excuse myself and pretend I’m getting a phone call, although it's fairly obvious nobody is ringing me. I walk to the edge of the seawall and look out at the harbour. The bridge is lit up with colourful lights tonight and they are mirrored in the water. Neon pink, blue and green reflections ripple back and forth like they’re dancing.

What is Lola doing right now? She only has five hours to send me a happy birthday message before my birthday is over. My mind wanders to Jude again.

* * * *

I stumble from the Uber and make my way up the stairs of my apartment complex, a firm grip on the handrail. People kept buying me glasses of red wine at the bar and I didn’t want to disappoint anyone so ended up consuming four or five large glasses. I really hate red wine.

Then, I think Ben ordered a round of shots and after that, things feel blurry.

I reach my front door and fumble in my pockets for my keys, just as my phone starts ringing. It’s from an unknown number. Only a few minutes until it strikes midnight, who would be ringing me at this hour? Perhaps it’s someone from work ringing to tell me I’ve left my keys at Opera Bar.

“Hello,” I try to control the slur in my voice.

A woman with a toneless voice responds.

“Constable Claire Dalton here. I apologise for ringing you so late but I’m following up on the request you made to my colleague to update you on the young man I believe you helped this morning at Erskineville train station?”

My heart picks up pace as I hold the phone closer to my ear.

“Yes, yes. Thank you. How’s he going?” I respond quickly.

“The young man, Jude, was escorted to St. Vincent’s Hospital where he was held involuntarily at the acute mental health ward. Unfortunately, at around 10.15 this evening he managed to escape the hospital and could not be immediately located. He somehow got hold of a weapon and attempted once again, to take his own life. This time he was successful in that attempt. Police located his body an hour ago.”

There is a pause, but I don’t say anything. The room is out of focus and I suddenly feel very drunk.

“Given the circumstances and your involvement, we wanted to let you know. Don’t think for a second that what you did this morning wasn’t worth it. He had a second chance thanks to your efforts,” she continues.

There is another pause and I feel I ought to fill it.

“Well, thank you for letting me know. I appreciate that, as I requested to be updated. But you already know that … I don’t know why I wanted to know … Maybe it’s because it’s my birthday today and I felt like good news.”

There is silence on the other end as I hear the words tumble from my mouth before I can think of them.

“I don’t know why I told you that. I’m a little drunk, I think. I hope I’m allowed to admit that.”

I scrunch my eyes together. Why can’t I stop speaking?

Constable Dalton clears her throat. “Well, that’s certainly not a crime unless you plan on driving. You have yourself a good night.”

“You too.”

We both hang up the phone. I remain still for a moment, then suddenly my knees buckle. My back slides down my front door. My keys fall out from my back pocket as I hit the ground. I close my eyes and exhale deeply from my nose, ignoring the sudden urge I have to throw up.

He did it anyway. He killed himself.

* * * *

The shrill sound of the milk steamer rings in my ear as I stand in line at Catcher Cafe, the only cafe in my work’s building complex. There are four people in front of me, a queue forming behind me and at least a 10 minute wait for coffee.

A voice comes from behind me.

“Sore head?”

I turn to see Lacey standing in the queue, wearing a giant pair of sunglasses.

“Huh?”

“I said, sore head?” she repeats “You were on the red wines last night?”

It takes me a few seconds to remember what she’s talking about. Last night feels like a life-time ago.

“Of course. Sorry, feeling a little out of it today.”

She nods in agreement.

“Tell me about it. Work drinks on Thursday night always seems like a good idea until the Friday morning meeting rolls around. I think I got home at like 11.30 or 12?”

“Just before midnight for me,” I respond, forcing a smile. I turn back around. I’m not in the mood to make polite conversation, particularly about Thursday night work drinks and Friday morning meetings as if that’s the only meaning we have in our pointless, pathetic corporate lives.

I feel a sudden surge of irritation towards Lacey and a desire to make her feel as bad as I do, so I turn back around.

“He killed himself by the way,” I say.

I can’t see her eyes underneath the sunglasses but her mouth turns down in an expression of bewilderment.

“What?” She leans forward as if she’s having trouble hearing me over the din of the cafe.

“Jude. He killed himself.”

She shakes her head. “Sorry, who is Jude? Is this someone we work with?”

She removes her sunglasses and I notice her eyeliner is smudged and black flecks of mascara skim the top of her cheeks.

“Jude is the guy whose life I saved yesterday. Remember you told me it was fate? Destiny? Ring any bells?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Of course I remember him,” she says, nodding slowly.

“Yeah, you were wrong about that. Because I didn’t do shit. He ended up dying anyway. Killed himself hours later.”

There is a long pause as she stares at me in surprise, her mouth slightly ajar.

“I’m really sorry to hear that,” she says eventually.

“It’s not like it’s your fault,” I shrug and turn around, my back facing her. The instant I turn I feel remorse at the edge in my voice and accusatory tone but it’s too late to backtrack now.

The man in front of me is ordering his coffee in an obnoxiously loud voice.

“You are forgetting something,” she says.

I turn my head towards her.

“You are forgetting the other people involved yesterday,” she says again.

I frown and wait for her to continue.

“Ok well, what about the train driver?”

I try to visualise the train driver. I remember Jude and myself but our surroundings are blurry. After it happened, someone pulled Jude off me … and the elderly woman handed me the tissue … And, I remember someone holding Jude by the shoulders. Suddenly, her entire face comes into my mind. The train driver. A round faced woman in her mid to late forties wearing a grey polo shirt with fluro orange stripes down the side. We’d made eye contact for a split second and she looked … Now I’m looking back on it … I think she looked relieved.

Lacey continues. “How do you think her life would’ve been had she killed someone? Even if they wanted to die and it was unintentional? Seeing the body? Her life would’ve been ruined. Maybe that’s why you were meant to do what you did. Not to mention the other passengers.”

I think of the elderly woman with the tissue, smiling and nodding. Lacey takes a deep breath.

“Or hey, maybe things are random and coincidence and there is no meaning to what you did. Maybe you just proved to yourself that you can do a good thing or maybe it was a happy accident. I don’t have all the answers, I just work in HR.”

She cracks a smile. I try to smile back but I don’t know if my brain is connecting with my mouth.

I open my mouth to respond but I’m interrupted by another voice.

“What’ll it be mate?”

I turn to find I’m at the front of the queue and the cafe worker is looking at me with slight annoyance at my inattentiveness.

“A long black and whatever she’s having,” I point to Lacey. It’s the least I can do. “Oh and a croissant.”

He nods, punching it into the computer.

“Are you a member with us?”

I nod and give him my loyalty card which he swipes then hands back to me.

“Ah … Happy birthday for yesterday,” he says, looking up from the screen. “Technically you were supposed to come in yesterday to redeem your free birthday coffee but I’ll allow it,” he says with a wink.

I realise Lola was the only person likely to remember my birthday yesterday. I hadn’t told anyone at work. I removed it from my Facebook a few years ago because the public messages embarrassed me. My parents, who I had a somewhat strained relationship with at the best of times, were in Europe and would likely get in touch today as that’s technically my birthday on their time. The only people I can recall celebrating with last year were Grandad and Lola.

This unnamed cafe worker was the first person to wish me a happy birthday.

“Thank you,” I say and to my complete surprise, my eyes fill with tears.

“Wait, it was your birthday yesterday?” Lacey is looking at me like I’m certifiable. She must notice my eyes are glazed over because she then says, “Are you okay?”

As soon as our coffees are ready, Lacey grabs hers and vanishes, she probably thinks I’m completely unhinged. I take my long black and my croissant from the counter and check my phone. Half an hour before I start work. The plan was to get in early and finish some reports from yesterday but fuck it. Life is short. There’s a park opposite the company building, so I meander there and settle on a park bench which is covered in patches of green moss and worn down paint from the many people who’ve sat on it over the years.

It’s a warm, cloudless day and the air smells like freshly cut grass and the faintest smell of dog poo. I take a bite from my croissant, the filling is soft and melts apart easily. People pass by in waves. A group of boys on skateboards, people jogging in fluro leggings, couples pushing prams, people running late for work … Are these just people randomly filling this space at the same time as I am or are we all connected and here for a reason? I guess we’ll never know. Maybe there is no connection between my grandad and Jude. Maybe it is just a random thing that happened to me.

I take a sip from my coffee. Catcher Cafe is one of those hipster cafes that use their own beans and it’s always a good, reliable brew. They designed their own take-away coffee cups too. My name is written in a scrawl on one side, misspelt as always. On the other side is a cartoon picture of a peach with a smiling face, a speech bubble connected to its mouth saying “Everything will be peachy-keen.”

I’ll take your word for it, I think, dunking the croissant into the steaming black liquid and taking a bite.

Like I said, it’s the little things.