The Train To Paris

I had short blond hair then, messy and anarchic; I wore low-slung jeans and tight vests and heavy knitted cardigans. Black eyeliner and tortoiseshell glasses. We sat in two seats behind a table on a crowded train like this one. We spoke at once; I was transfixed by the movement of his mouth and didn’t care what he said. Our fingertips brushed as I turned back to my book or him to his computer, open on laps. And then, our attention would stray back to the smell of the other’s neck, skin stretched over collarbones. I remember studying his hand in mine as thought it were a map to memorise, as though treasure lay beneath every crease. Legs crossed, then open. Legs leaning against the other, the pressure of flesh beneath denim made my blood rise like the tide. The train trundled on towards France. I must have been flushed as the carriage locked down and we sped down into the tunnel under the channel. The lights overhead changed to a fluorescent brightness and people felt compelled to stay in their seats. I remember his pupils huge in his blue eyes, the stubble on his chin brushing against my face, next to the curl of my ear as he whispered: “Open you trousers and hold your book up.”