A Twelve Minute Affair

Posted by Tilia

I work in Oxford Circus.  Every evening, when I get off of work, clamoring to get into the tube station is a paradoxical nightmare.  Today, after a three hour sabbatical to East Acton to request a National Insurance number, I was in a hurry to get out of the office and onto the tube before public transit got crazy.

I raced down the station stairs, shoved my way through the automated pay gates, and did the step-shuffle down the escalators, happily accepting my daily edition of The London Paper from that nice guy with the waist-length dreadlocks, who knows to have one ready for the girl in the white coat.

I swung into the Northbound Victoria Line corridor only to be stopped short by a gaggle of people clogged right out into the walkway.

Whatever, I thought … It’ll clear up in a sec.  I flipped open my paper and read with blatant disgust about Paris Hilton considering staying in London permanently, and an English missionary/school teacher who’d been gunned down in Kabul.  

I managed to eventually get onto the platform, struggling to turn pages to find out which restaurants and musicals were being shut down due to the credit crunch as not one, not two, but five trains went by before I made it to the hallowed Yellow Line.  When the next train rounded the corner, there was a surge and the girl next to me started screaming as she slipped, nearly tumbling into the rail pit.  Two Indian guys reacted really quickly pulling her back up almost the moment the train entered the station which, somehow, didn’t calm everyone the hell down.

I pushed with the best of them, pulling myself into the tube car, and then gave into the mass, eventually becoming pressed firmly between several bodies, and accepting the fact that my newspaper musings would have to wait for a few stops.  The train lurched, sending everyone into awkward bouts of intimacy with each other, and we were on our way.

Warren St. provided very little solace, and Euston was just as bad, though at Euston, on came someone who caught my eye, if only briefly.  He had close cut, dark auburn/brownish hair and deep blue eyes.  He was wearing a suit, and had a doctor’s bag that would’ve made Jane drool, slung over his shoulder.

The doors slammed shut, and suddenly I was jostled almost face-to-face with him.  We briefly caught eyes and laughed at the awkwardness of the forced closeness, then, in an attempt to escape the discomfort, I leaned my head on my raised arm, still firmly gripping the railing, and closed my eyes.  

As the train tore through the underground, I did occasionally open my eyes to admire his torso, or attempt to steal a look at his face, which was quite pleasant.  I had a feeling he was doing much the same.

At King’s Cross, the crowd altered, and I ended up facing the other direction, and somehow, he ended up behind me.  I swear this all happened independent of any design on the part of either of us.

If we’d known each other, the positioning would’ve felt very territorial.  As we didn’t, I’ve probably ended up in that very stance with a number of faceless strangers over the past few months, and probably shouldn’t have noticed it, but there was a very keen awareness going on there.  When the train would pull, my arm would brush against his chest or stomach.  He could’ve moved away, or adjusted, but he stayed perfectly still, as did I, and allowed it to happen.  

Somehow, between King’s Cross, and Highbury and Islington, it the whisper of space between me and this guy became an electric thing, that continued to grow gradually smaller as we inadvertently allowed the gap to shrink.  It was so intense that I was expecting some sort of deliberate contact very soon, and it spooked me.  I could feel the heat of his body behind me, the way you feel the heat of someone lying next to you in bed.

At the next stop, I spun away, to the railing next to the seats, turning back to face where he stood, and wrapped my arm through the space between the rail and the glass.  

I spent a the very short transit between the next stop very aware and amused at all the quick, stolen glances he kept casting at me, and not really trusting myself to move or look up at all.

At Finsbury Park, the usual mob of people piled off of the train, my short-lived paramour included.  I eased into a seat as the doors slammed shut and was surprised to spot him facing the window.  He happened to glance up and catch my eye.

I felt a smile spread over my face, and I sheepishly raised my hand and gave a little finger wave.

He broke into a grin and winked, then, shaking his head, and running his hands behind his head and onto his neck, he turned away as the train pulled out of the station.

I’ll probably never see that guy again, but he certainly made an impression.

~ by Shannon on October 20, 2008.