I caught a glimpse of beautiful sweetness on the 5:10pm Frankston express train today.

I was watching Sex and The City on my iPod, being careful to cover the screen when that old Samantha chick flashes her breasts for the millionth time, when I glanced up at the seat opposite me.

It was only a quick flicker, but I caught the sight of two people embracing.

Two guys.

Here we were, on a packed peak hour train, and these two guys were caressing each other without a care in the world. And this wasn't some sort of "we're here, we're queer" kinda in your face display, it was a gentle and loving act - one guy, who I could clearly see, was resting his head in the nook of the neck of the other guy, whose face was partially obscured by a fat person sitting directly opposite me.

The guy rested his head so gently, so loving, as if to say, I've had a hard day, but placing my head on your shoulder makes me forget about the world. I can hear your heartbeat, he'd continue to himself, and the rhythm of your love drowns out all the other noise in the world, and there's nothing but you and I.

That, and, the rest of the train. But we didn't exist to them.

It was beautiful. It was sweet. It made me believe in love again. 

I tried not to stare, because I didn't want them to think I was greasing 'em off in a homophobic way. (When I don't wear my glasses, I have to squint to see properly. It looks like I hate everyone.)

So I let them be, existing in their own bubble of love, as the train carried us further down the Frankston line and more passengers disembarked - including the view-obscuring fattie opposite me.

With another quick glance in their direction to reconfirm that true love still exists, I suddenly realised - that's not another guy.

It was really butch-looking chick. Who looked old enough to be this dude's mum; or hairy enough to be his dad.

Eww, dude - that's just fucking wrong. Get a room.