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November 4, 2010
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I know what I want. I tell myself this as I walk out the door. There's always been a plan: fall in love, successful career, get married, have children, be happy. Admittedly, time had muddled up the order a tad, but fundamentally the plan was still in tact. I just needed him, he was my missing link, the broken clasp on my necklace, with him everything would fall nicely into place. That was why I waited on the platform. I purse my lips tightly shut and try not to inhale the disgusting air in the station. I start experiencing a familiar aching sensation, my entire body tenses in anticipation, the mere thought of my love supplies every fibre in my body with energy. I must calm down, I know how to, I did it yesterday, I'll do it tomorrow, it's practically my job. Watching people.

Oh my, she has such terrible style, how could she leave the house like that? A tasteless outfit, what was she thinking? She wasn't, thats obvious. Too many colours, too many ruffles; it hurts my eyes a little bit to look directly at her. And him, he could do so much better. I'm constantly baffled by what attracts a man, surely self presentation is a contributing factor, surely. His shirt is from Paul Smith, a man after my own heart. I tilt my head slightly to the right and follow this mis-match couple down the stairs with my eyes. Out of sight, out of mind. The light on my phone glows, illuminating my hand and face as I check the time. Don't think about the time.

Ah! An Italian, the corduroy trousers give it away. Too much brown, terrible shoes. I must admit, Italians do have the art of dressing down to a tee, a most impressive race. She's too matchy-matchy; I would wear that shirt, though not like that. Unexpected, a weave of plaits at the back of her head, how teenage girl. Honestly. Oh dear, a Primark clan, all knicker-lines and nylon and neon and nightmarish! I can't help but stare, my eyes widen. How could so many people get it so wrong? Surely they can see what each other look like, surely they can see.

I readjust myself on the seat, cross over the other leg, check my watch. Toy watches. I see them everywhere, each time those tacky blobs of colour violate my vision its like being stabbed. A whole company that got it wrong, what a disaster. There goes another one, they're everywhere.

Dear Lord, what happened to her face? Is that make-up? Tell me thats not make-up. She is a complete train wreck, a first class prostitute, if you ask me. I tilt my wrist towards my eyes and glimpse the time, any minute now. No, don't think about it, expel it from your mind, focus on the game. What on earth could she be hiding under that much foundation? Her face will melt on the tube journey. I'm almost embarrassed for her, almost. At least thats one less competitor. One less. One less...

The mind of a man is a mystery to me. Take this man for instance, shamelessly staring, does he think I can't tell? And after oodling at me, he seems equally satisfied to mentally devour her. She has obviously never worked out in her life, she probably doesn't even know what a gym is. Pitiful really. No amount of 'magic underwear' will hide those love handles darling. He's unbelievable, not my type anyway.

What shoes! Look at them go, so shiny. Perfection. Oh how devastating, I wish I hadn't looked at the person in the shoes. Usually I'm pretty spot on when I play the 'shoe-game'. (Analyse peoples shoes and try to picture the person who owns them, then look up to judge you powers of perception.) What a waste for such shoes to go to her, how typical. The people who deserve it never get it, always the case.

There! I see him, his hair bouncing above the crowd in oblivious bliss. He's oblivious of me, but not for long. I watch him emerge from the masses as he takes his place on the platform. Only a gust of wind away from me, although, of course, I would know his regular spot on the platform by now. From this angle I can only see a slice of his pale face: tufts of ringlets tucked behind his long boney ear, the outline of his jaw, his skin the complexion of the moon or a glass of champagne – I'll know for sure which one when we're married. My eyes lower as I take in his flawless body: his porcelain neck, smart shirt tucked primly into his trousers. His tailored jacket draped over his left arm, a shinny watch just visible amidst the dark fabric. A belt enclosing his waist...

The moment is fleeting. I hear the train approaching the platform like a housewife stepping into a shop – a seemingly innocent affair, something that happens all the time. However, there is no question in this lady's mind that she will be leaving that shop with the last pair of Louboutins, regardless of any obstacles she might encounter. In the same way the train comes, day in day out, slowly and innocently; but, regardless of the situation, it will be leaving this platform and taking with it my pair of Louboutins.

The crowd uniformly start to prepare for the train, hoisting their hideous bags onto their shoulders, checking their cheap watches, straightening the skins they bought off last seasons sale

racks. Unable to stop myself I raise from my seat and take a measured step forward. He is standing directly on my right, our elbows a butterfly effect away from touching. With extreeme effort I keep my face composed as I stretch out my arm in an apparent attempt to adjust my sleeve and reveal my watch. Right on time. My watch awkwardly knocks into his during the ordeal and a small sound is made (like the noise of a stiletto on a marble floor.) In unison the crowd tense as the train comes to a halt on the platform, they take a step forward, I'm left one step behind, their eyes are shifting impatiently. They watch resentfully as the passengers get off the train first, they're too greedy. I watch as the train inhales the crowd off the platform and into the carriages, then claps its doors shut definitively and leaves. The platform is empty bar myself. Again.

I suffocate the pain I feel knowing I'll be separated from him until tomorrow. Resignedly I gather up my scarf and coat, smooth my skirt down and turn to leave the station. It's the beginning of another day. I notice a nightmare of an outfit on my way out, simply dreadful. London needs to employ fashion police. Oh! How funny, she can't walk in those shoes. I turn my head, and even shoulders around, to follow her limping progress. How embarrassing for her. Really quite terrible. I would never put myself through that humiliation.

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This article has 3 comments. Post your own now!

TheAngelWithTheScabbedWings said...
Nov. 8, 2010 at 2:53 pm
You are an incredible writer. Good imagery. Good use of words. amazing story lines. keep it up.
Cizzaling replied...
Nov. 9, 2010 at 4:40 pm
thank you, made my day :)
TheAngelWithTheScabbedWings replied...
Nov. 11, 2010 at 8:57 am

Anytime. :) Keep writing.


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