She was standing beside me as we waited for the train, barely registering in my periphery, consumed as I was with the cold, the time and the unrelenting misery of perpetual winter darkness. As the door beeped open I stood aside to let her pass and she swept on without acknowledgement taking the last available seat. I stood in the concourse between the two opposite doors leant against the hand held and found my place in my book, immersing myself in the exotic world of corrupt politicians in faraway lands as things fell apart, maidens’ knees weakened and men declared themselves of the people and for the people for 3 more stops.

As I turned the page, I looked up and caught her eye as she looked up. Turning her page, she rapidly averted her gaze, returning to her book: Kafka on the shore. At least I could claim I’d read it. I wondered what she made of my offering. I decided to look at her properly.

She was young 19, 20. She sat slumped back in the seat, legs splayed with unashamed masculinity as if the day’s efforts were such that she was beyond caring about convention. She looked tired, but not exhausted. Her skin was visible through her white jumper; her trousers looked more suited to hiking or cycling than a suburban commute. Her breasts were small, comfortably hand-sized, the darkness of her bra against the whiteness of her jumper accentuating the swell and lustre of them. I looked at her face, which was angular, not beautiful, maybe handsome? Attractive. Yes, attractive with the second look. She would look the same sweating in a kitchen or in a business suit, but if she really wanted to, her attractiveness would not need that second look. Today she was practical. Warm jumper, rugged trousers. From work or school? To her home or to her lover’s? I smiled with my eyes, as she looked up and caught me staring with my faint smile and amused eyes. She held my gaze and then returned to her book. The train stopped and disgorged its first load of faithful cargo happy for their 16 hour reprieve before returning to the city again to give to Caesar.

2 more stops…

Was it worth sitting down? I took the seat opposite her. She glanced up as she moved her feet and her bag a little closer to accommodate me. Close to her I could smell the faint tinge of her perfume; or was it her deodorant or her shampoo, or did I just wish to smell something?

She was halfway through the book. Her fingers were long and slender with a clear lacquer on the nails. The nail on the index finger of her right hand was broken. My book lay on my lap as I looked down and wondered what to say. Say something? Nothing? If she ignored me, I’d be off in 5 minutes. If she answered, I’d be off in 5 minutes. I looked out the window and caught her eye again in the reflection, I turned, she returned to her book.

“Kafka on the shore?”

She lowered the book slightly, as if nodding by proxy and then performed the manoeuvre herself, quizzically, cautiously, but fearlessly.

“I read it a year ago and I’m still not sure what I read!”

She lowered the book further with a half smile of acknowledgement, still holding her book high enough to form a barrier between the worrisome fellow in the opposite seat and the fantastical wanderings of a Japanese novelist.

“I’ve read it twice,” she volunteered.

“And?”

“And it still fascinates me.”

The plot had perplexed me so much, that I’d forgotten it as soon as I’d put it down, yet here I was in front of this girl, possibly an expert on my chosen vehicle of introduction and I couldn’t form a cogent sentence about it.

“None of his books make sense to me,” I confessed. “I’ve read 3 and they all confuse me, but the writing is so beautiful and poetic that I can’t put them down.”

“Indeed,” she replied disinterestedly. A gust of cold air and an annoying continuous beep informed me that I had another stop to go before I could escape from the intriguing evidence of my literary inabilities.

She was looking at me now, studying me as I had studied her. Taking in my eyes, my mouth, my hair, my hands, my book. There was a beauty about her that was purposelessly hidden behind the practical exterior.

“Simonov?” she enquired, “Good book, but not his best work.”

“Why do you say so?” I responded, as I wracked my brain for any information I could dredge up about the author of a book I had bought from the penny basket of my local charity shop.

My phone buzzed briefly in my pocket distracting me, but ringing off before I could even reach for it, still on silent from work.

I was fascinated by the angles of her face; she was still slumped back in her seat as I’d first seen her. Her breasts rising and falling metronomically. Neither attacking nor retreating from their constraints, simply being. Her eyes tired, but awake.

All this time, I had been speaking, as well as drinking her in. Declaiming my view of Simonov’s work while looking into her eyes. The conversation was moving to other Russian writers, who she stated were not as earthy as she would have liked. I observed that Russians of that generation most likely spoke, swore and wrote better in French.

She smiled, “Indeed.” Once again our eyes locked, mine determinedly fixed, hers open. Not inviting but not unfriendly. She was intelligent. Maybe well educated, maybe well read or maybe just observant and analytical.

Much like her face, there was something hidden in her eyes, still no invitation; more of a challenge, a gauntlet not so much slapped across the upstart’s face, but there in the background, letting him know what was there in store for him. There was a beautiful crusade promised within; it might end at the gates of Jerusalem, the grail never seen or its existence even proven, but what a journey.

The door closed again as the beeps ended. Her breast rose again in a small sigh, her belly was flat beneath her jumper, exaggerating the swells and curves of her body. I could imagine my hand on her belly, as I pushed her back on the bed with a kiss, removing the book from her fingers, her protestations with my wandering hands. I could see my hands gently feeling under her shirt for conforming to the comfort of her body, as we lay in the grass soaking in the everything, dozing and waking only to kiss, smile and turn.

In the time it took for me to miss my stop, we had moved to Cuban literature, a genre I had never even ventured into. We could have been talking about turnips or the weather, our real conversation was with our eyes. My book fell from my lap, as the train jolted, and my bookmark with my name and email on it fell to the floor. She picked it up and studied it, holding it close, but not too close. Preferring to proffer and make me stretch over and take it, rather than to move and give it to me. I stood up.

It was pleasure.

I took her hand and enveloped it in mine, as I sought to recover my bookmark. It was soft, I ran my finger over her broken nail. She stiffened slightly, then relaxing with her slight mocking smile playing over her lips and eyes. The beauty I had seen without adornment and advertisement spoke to me quietly through those eyes. It said, “A kiss will be just a kiss, a sigh a sigh.” She would be the fundamental thing to which all time would apply, and as it went by, it would be as if time was standing still.

“It was a pleasure,” I said

“Likewise.”

We locked eyes one more time, as I was on the unfamiliar platform looking for the exit, and she remained slumped in her seat as I’d first seen her. She smiled, inclined her head, and returned to her book.
I checked my phone as I waited for the bus and made a call.

“Hello.”

“Hello.”

“You’re back early, I thought you would pull another all-nighter.”

“Finished early.”

“How is he doing?”

“He’s fine. Got an A in science and can’t decide if he wants to be a doctor or a marine biologist.”

“He can be both!” I laughed, “I’ll be back in 15 minutes.”

“Good, I’ve left the day’s washing up for you.”

“See you soon.”

The bus turned up, I fumbled with my pass and went home.