First Voyeurism

She gets on the train at Swindon wearing polished beige jeans with a dribble of a coffee stain down the left leg and a striped t-shirt, plastic colours stamped across her chest. She puts away her bag and I spot him on the platform. Pale blue t-shirt, football shorts over hairy legs, burns on his wrists and ears that stick out. He waves at her through the glass and she doesn't notice, busy settling in as she is. He doesn't wander off, he doesn't get embarassed. He paces a little and looks around a bit, waves again and again, a little dorky wave leading from waggling fingers.

It takes her a while to notice, and for a few moments I think that he'll miss her attention entirely, but his face lights up when she finally does catch her eye. He looks less dorky. Or more dorky. Either way, it's a better look for him, talking mutely to the glass of the window.

"What?" she says, the old refrain that he in his turn can't be able to hear. "What?"

So he gets his phone out, one of the flippy ones that's silver on one half and black on the other, rounded at the ends. She seems to lose interest in him again, and I wonder if he's given up on her, admitted that they've said their goodbyes and it's time for the train to leave. An interrupting random call that he's taken rather than pursue the futile mouthing at the window.

No. She's rummaging through her bags and the careful chirp of a polyphonic ringtone whistles through the carriage. Their farewells continue, and she's good, because I can't make out what she's saying in spite of her proximity. They continue talking as the train leaves the station, and I can't imagine where she might be going.