As I weeble, trying to pick a direction to face on a freak free-seat day in the busiest station under London, she stares with hazel lasers, ignores my apology, gets me twitching "she knows me/she knows about the magazines/she knows about the double-wrapped parcels" to myself. A bluff agent smuggling a French accent beneath her silence? Her shades sit on her head; she has grown sloppy or gone rogue, staring down those she feels slighted by. That could be me. I blocked her way with my fumbling, so I guess I could die now because I didn't want the dizziness of backwards riding.
Ah me, but wait. She alights at Edgware Road, smiles. The doors kiss.
