You

Published in Riding Light Review

You came out of the blue, like a firework that catches you off guard, just as you take a sip of your beer and, startled, you spill it down your white shirt and end up looking like a child who can’t control the direction of a bottle. You’d taken the seat next to me on the train. The conductor spoke through the sound system: expected delays. They’re doing what they can. They’ll keep us updated. There’s coffee available in carriage H. It was then that you tore your eyes away from your tattered book and looked at me as if to say “trains, eh?” You smelt of perfume and paint – a smell I have yet to forget. When I close my eyes to think back to that moment; to remember the exact tint of auburn in your hair, the precise number of freckles on your cheeks, the smell of perfume and paint rises up again, so thick I can almost drink it.  

The elderly woman opposite us snored a little in her sleep – I wished that you’d make eye contact with me again, that I had someone to laugh with. We could have been like two children, hiding our mockery behind innocently evil smiles. Couldn’t we have done that? But, no, your eyes continued looking downwards, seemingly mesmerised by a wonderfully worn novel. What was it? I should’ve asked. Up until that moment I’d never before taken notice of strangers, beautiful or not, on any street or train or bus. It just wasn’t something that I did. But with you…well, you changed everything. In the split second that my eyes met yours I was hooked. That was all it took – one second. And I bet you didn’t even have a clue. I didn’t know what to do with myself; I couldn’t peel my eyes away. I studied you. I studied you. Your eyes – as green as emerald city, and twice as sparkly – scanned the pages in front of you. Your left hand was holding your book, your right hand was holding up your head; your fingernails were painted – as red as Snow White’s ruby lips – and they stood out against the dull pages. Your hair – as brown as rich mahogany – was in soft curls draping around your face and neck. You wore a sheer white shirt, buttoned-up only to your bosom, with a delicate gold chain hanging around your neck. The skin on your bare chest had three moles (one on your collarbone, one on the base of your neck and one on the crease between your breasts). You had on a navy skirt, hugging your waist, with a delicate polka dot pattern around the top. I could see your navel just above it, through your shirt. You had an outwardly protruding bellybutton. It was unusual. I liked it.  

You had a small flake of pastry, presumably from lunch, on your skirt. I had to thrust my hands into my pockets to resist the urge to wipe it away, to have it stick to my skin before it fell to the floor. On the bare skin of my forearm I could feel the warmth radiating from your body. My hairs stood on end. You pretended not to notice our sudden closeness; you kept your eyes fixed on your book. All the while my skin itched to be touched by yours, silky and smooth and soft. Out of the corner of my eye I saw you glance at me, before crossing one leg over the other, gently nudging my shin with your foot. 

“Sorry,” you smiled.  

Time stood still. Your eyes lit up, like someone holding a leaf up to the sun. Your eyes were bloodshot. Were you tired? Had you been crying? I wanted to reach out and place my hand on your shoulder, but I didn’t. There were speckles of black around the outer rim of your irises, like shadows in a misty field. You had uneven eyebrows: one had a slightly higher arch than the other. It was endearing. You had one, two, three, four, five freckles subtly placed on the bridge of your nose. Your thick, full lips framed your straight teeth. Did that happen naturally or did you used to have braces? The image of you as a teenager with braces and greasy skin brought a smile to my face. You turned away then, taking my smile as a response. I kicked myself inwardly, desperately searching for another way to explore your eyes for rogue traces of blue and grey, to examine your uneven hairline, to memorise the dimples in your cheeks. As the train suddenly darkened and we went through a tunnel the window acted as a mirror. You lifted your head to look outside, almost as a favour to me, sensing that I wasn’t done appraising you. Even when it was the wrong way round your face was beautiful. You tucked your hair behind your ear, revealing a pair of small stud earrings. They were transparent gemstones, made of either glass of diamond; the reflection wasn’t clear enough to be sure. As you were looking at your reflection – oh, were I to be the mirror casting your likeness – your eyes met mine. Your eyes looked away, hurriedly, like a sound being hushed before it had time to resonate. 

There was something about you that felt familiar, like a face in a crowd that you recognise from somewhere that you can’t remember, and in a flash the face is gone but the image remains, burnt into the back of your mind, as if I’d dreamt you into existence. A small man in a blue uniform approached our table, asking to inspect our tickets. Mine were stored in my breast pocket, whereas you had kept yours in your purse, thrown into your bag, tucked away under your seat. It was charming to see you rummage through your bag, like an eager child opening Christmas presents. The malodorous ticket inspector sighed with impatience. I shot him a piercing glance. He rolled his eyes as you timidly handed over your train tickets. 

“Sorry,” you whispered. 

Indignantly, I withheld eye-contact as I passed my tickets over, then left my hand outstretched, awaiting the return of them, newly-stamped. I peeked at you as you tidied your belongings away, flustered, your cheeks flushed red. I wanted to smile at you, reassure you, calm you, but you were too busy hiding away your clothes into your bag. Was that real leather? Splashes of red cotton, blue silk, grey linen spilled out from the opening of the holdall, skirts and jumpers and underwear. I imagined you trying them all on, twirling around in slow-motion, revealing your skin and then all at once covering it with another item of clothing, now long, now short, now there…now not. I pictured you sleeping, partially covered by your sheets, your hair strewn across the mattress below you, legs akimbo, eyes shut, mouth parted, breathing quietly.  

A blurry voice transmitted through the air: the train would be arriving shortly at the next stop. Please remember your luggage. Connecting trains are all on time. Thank you for travelling with us. You looked at me as if to say “better get comfortable, we’ve a long way to go.” I blinked, stupefied by the wrinkles at the corners of your mouth. But, then, you started to put on your coat. My brows knitted in confusion. Were you cold? Were you going to get some of the coffee available in carriage H? You stood, picked your book up, and marked the page, before packing it into a front pocket of your bag. How could you? You carelessly threw the strap over your shoulder, before giving me the same look as before. This time your uneven eyebrows were raised higher, your dry lips pursed tighter, saying something different, saying “well, this is my stop.” How could you? I swung my legs sideways to grant you access to the aisle. The smell of perfume and paint clawed over me, clinging to my skin. Your coat touched my hand; colder, harsher than your body which was now obscured from view.  Your threadbare bag jolted my shoulder on your way past.  

“Sorry,” you said.