The Woman on the Train
Holly knew it was rude, but still couldn’t help peeking at the woman over her book. It was a remarkable face. Beautiful, almost hypnotic eyes. A long, thin nose, balanced delicately on the face - fragile and almost translucent in the overhead lights. The woman had straight black hair with a fringe so severely straight, it could only have been cut by a hairdresser with OCD. How had they got it that straight? A ruler? A spirit level?
As Holly continued to ponder over this curious problem, she let her gaze – furtive, darting and shy at first, get longer and longer. Soon she was not just looking, she was staring. Her eyes moved from the fringe to the eyebrows, arched like a ballerina’s back. Then to the eyes, curious with their black irises pierced by startling blue dots in the middle. Offset by long, wavy lashes, they looked unreal, almost doll-like. Her gaze slid down the nose and came to rest on the mouth, arresting in its bright redness - the lips so thin that they looked like two thin slivers of tomato.
Where had she seen this face? Why did it appear so familiar? She was startled out of her reverie by a text from Nick. She loved Nick. Every time she heard from him, her skin felt all warm and tingly, like she’d been in the scorching heat and then been rained on by some big, warm, gentle drops that just about took the sting of the sun off. She read the text – and again let her gaze wander, first to the tube map above the woman’s head and then slowly but surely back to her face. She was irresistibly drawn to it, like a sugar addict inching towards the last bit of chocolate on the shelves.
Then suddenly, and quite inevitably it happened. The black eyes that had been safely engrossed in the Evening Standard suddenly shifted their gaze and before she had time to prepare, looked straight at hers. The thin mouth, parted and then smiled, the corners curling up and creasing the skin around it. Holly felt a hot and uncomfortable flush creep over her skin. Not only had she been staring at a stranger on the train, she had been caught doing it. Her hands, clammy and sweaty, shook as she gathered up her bags. She stood up quickly, startling the old man next to her. She stumbled towards the door, not even bothering to pick up the book that had fallen from her lap. This was not her stop, but she had to get out, and escape the painful humiliation of being that abhorrent person who had invaded someone’s else’s space, intruded on their privacy. How could she? What had come over her?
The doors opened and she stumbled out, almost into the gap, but steadied herself just in time. One second later and she might have heard the woman say “Holly? Holly? Is that you…? I’m your…” But she was up the stairs and out of the station, long before the familiar voice drowned out the rest of the woman’s sentence: “Mind the closing doors. Mind the closing doors. This train is now ready to depart.”