The squeaking of the closing doors was loud. The sounds of broken conversations hovered in the air. The movement of the train made the mass of bodies shift. I had grown accustomed to the motion, having to ride the underground train to school everyday.
I was in college. A sophomore majoring in archaeology at the University of Cambridge. Which is in the UK if you didn't know where it was located. I took the subway everyday. The faces of the usual people becoming familiar. But everyday there were new appearances made, people I would never see again. Many older, middle aged men and women off to work. Many dressed in formal attire.
My eyes would scan the crowd, as I had nothing better to do, although many of my acquaintances would study on the commute to class. I had studied enough. It was tiring, and boring for me once I do it constantly for hours at my flat. Acquaintances are all they are. I've never really become close to anyone, seeing as though I didn't graduate high school in the states with too many friends either. I simply blended into the background. I didn't care, nor did I worry. I liked the peace I had. I had a cell phone for only one reason: so I could call my mother who lived in Montana.
It was a large change for me, from a small farming community to the big world of a city near London. I was scared for the first time in forever I was here. No contacts, no friends, or anyone here. Starting my life from scratch seemed alluring to me, although I had been frightened of the public ever since I was born probably. But I have survived.
I pulled my smart phone out of my pocket and glimpsed at the time it turned from 11:32 to 11:33.
My eyes looked up to see a man. Dressed in street clothes as I am, he has no bag with him, nor backpack. His hair is mahogany brown, cut short at the sides and back, while the top is mohawk-ish. His attempt to keep his hair standing up had no avail as it began to flatten against his head. I had the sudden and wanting urge to run my fingers through it, to fix and to feel it. On his lower face, there was stubble, but just the right amount to make the man look masculine, and mature. His high cheek bones came forward some, and did not make his face look thin and hollow. The skin looked tan, almost an olive coloured complexion. I attempted to guess his age. Early twenties, like me?
Before I could assume my usual stance, head towards my feet, shoulders slumped a tad, he looked at me. As if he could tell that I was staring at him. Was I? I had never been attracted to someone on the train before, why now? And why this specific man? There were plenty of other handsome young men that rode the train everyday, but something about them never seemed right. He smiled at me, our eyes locked. His green hazel coloured eyes connected with mine, and it made my heart stop.
I looked down at the phone in my hand, the time turning from 11:33 to 11:34.
My impulse says to search for the man again, but when I look up, he is gone. The train stopped, doors open. The man; gone
