Second Voyeurism

His nails need cutting. They're a bit too long and his arms fly everywhere. He bends one behind above his head, over the top of his seat so that his hand is right in front of me, and I can see that his nails very definitely need cutting and the skin is snagged on the middle knuckle of his right index finger. Other than that I can't see much of him at all. He has his shirt rolled up to his elbows, light material a respectable enough business thing.

What else can I see? He has scruffy blonde hobbit hair, and her head rests on his shoulder. They're american with sleepy accents, and they spend most of Didcot to Swindon necking intently, quiet words to each other, close and gentle presses of lips to earlobe.

I can hear the smacking, and busily watch the fields pass by.

We go through Bath because there's engineering at Bristol, and they sit up to catch glimpses of the pretty town, sandstone buildings and occasional spires. Terraced houses crammed close with a rainbow of laundry set out to dry, a colourful scrap collage filling in back gardens.

She had a bag on the foldaway table which had green trim about a blue and white and green patterned thing, unzipped for convenience, I suppose. She must have put it on the floor at some point. The table's away now, and she brings her knees up to rest against the hard plastic back of it, against the seat in front of her. She's wearing deep blue jeans and a dark pink t-shirt, and her hair is just as dark. Not chestnut, but some other brown, the hue of burnished old wood falling apart at an antique store, or thoroughly burnt sugar lining a pan, mollasses almost. It's tied back neat but not too neat, and makes her look very well behaved.

A head falls on her shoulder. I can't see anything. Just hobbit hair.