You rub your teeth with cotton buds, something squeaks and squeals. Is it the bud? Is it the teeth? Something else..?

They’re cleaner now I imagine. This is a slow train. It’s about three hundred and fifty kilometres from Munich to Prague. It would have been quicker by bus, probably. You got on in Linz.

The compartment is empty but for you, me, and your bird, who has ceased squawking at me and now is either fixated on the dusty purple seats or has died with her eyes open.

Maybe you hypnotised her.

With your squeaky, squawky teeth.