A Beautiful Girl on the Tube

I watch her deftly tucking a chocolate-brown curl behind her ear. Her fingers are graceful and long and I can see the slightest hint of green-blue veins beneath the pale skin of her wrists. Unaware that someone has noticed her, she returns to her book, trying to read in between the impossible jerky stops and starts of the train. With her arm clinging to the rail above her head, her body dangles and sways like a marionette. From the angle at which I'm standing, so close I have to crane my neck so as not to have my cheek brush hers, I can see the outline of her breasts and a sliver of milky skin, where her shirt is riding up over her jeans. The crush of communters, struggling frantically to squeeze themselves into the stuffed compartment, means that our bodies are forced into an intimate position, like forgotten dolls or angry lovers; our arms touching, heads turned at some unnatural angle. The train lurches forward, her lips touch my dress strap, leaving a smear of gloss, like the trails left by snails. I look down, amidst her apologies, and try to wipe it off, but my fingers become sugary, smelling of some synthetic fruit; I think it's supposed to be mango. At Pimlico, I prise myelf from the writhing crowd and she squeezes my hand in a final apology; a comfortable gesture, as if she knew me. I make my way down the avenue of trees towards the Tate...all I can smell are mangoes, heady and rich.