Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
•
For what reason might a glossy and refined beacon of fame—an A-lister—descend into a dank, underearth hub of grime and steel and literal third rails? The untold glories of subterranean thrills beckon to even the most glimmering of movie stars. Some even hang on to the pole. Yes, for them, getting the Tube is an adventure rather than a mundane task.
While on tour, Harry longed for quotidian rituals. Returning home, he's been taking delight in mundane matters such as shopping for food and taking out the garbage. If he's in an adventurous mood, he braves the Tube. His girlfriend Primrose, a celebrated writer of children's stories, happily tags along.
On a slow Tuesday afternoon, the renowned couple descends into the transportation dugout that is the London Underground. They vie for a fare at the ticketing machines and then get lost in the convoluted tunnels. They wait on the platform, eavesdropping, people-watching.
Harry does the train-(isn't)-approaching tilt, and Primrose notes tunnel lighting is somehow flattering for him.
The train pulls up, the loudspeaker's mechanical voice warns, "Mind the gap!"
They wade past the door-dweller and manage to find themselves a spot in the middle of the carriage. As the carriage jolts forwards, Primrose knocks that lady who's sitting down's newspaper with her elbow. She'll now proceed to glare at Primrose from the comfort of her seat making the pair's wobbly journey to Oxford Circus just that little bit more unpleasant.
Thankfully though, they stand well away from the out-of-control backpack wearer and can enjoy the slapstick comedy.
They commute like patient souls. Harry goes for the advanced armpit-lean manoeuvre, holding the overhead pole. Primrose slithers an arm around his torso to steady herself.
He catches her ogling. He tucks his tongue into the side of his cheek then winks. A lyrical smile slowly spreads across Harry's cherubic, clean-shaven face. "What?"
"Nothing."
He scoffs, grins boyishly, and the dimple on his left cheek appears. "You love my dimples," he observes.
She draws her thumb over the indent. "I do." Tipping her head, she places her ruby lips where her thumb had been.
