This Must Be The Place and Other Stories

You've Seen Her Before

You've seen her before. 

On the Tube. Early in the morning, as you sway along with the rest of the passengers on your way to work. You've glanced up, run your eyes over the mass of humanity surrounding you --taking in little more than colours and shapes -- before dropping your eyes back down into the depths of whatever mobile device you happened to be engaging with that day.  

But you've seen her. She takes the same train every morning, just like you do. She's tried to smile at you. Nod. A little bit of human contact. 

You haven't responded. You don't know her. She's a stranger to you, and your mother browbeat it into you to never talk to strangers. 

Although, with her slightly worn turquoise jacket, 2nd-hand paperback resting in her lap, and that Save The Bees bag by her feet, she doesn't look dangerous. She doesn't look like that type of stranger. You're an adult now, you know what danger looks like. 

Still, you can never really tell, can you?  Better safe than sorry. 

And what about you, sir? You've seen her before, too. 

No, don't look away and ruffle your newspaper. You know who I'm referring to. 

That lady you sometimes see in the coffee shop in Tagart Street. The one either before you or behind you in the queue. You've looked at her-- seen the gentle fans of wrinkles around her eyes, the beginning droop of her jawline, the thin strands of grey running through her hair -- and looked away, mentally marking her as uninteresting.  

She's too old for you to find attractive. A man in your position needs younger, better dressed. Although, if you were forced to pay some mind to her for longer, let's say for a bet, you'd have to admit that there's really nothing wrong with her, and her voice is actually quite pleasant. 

And her voice you've heard, of course, as she's placed her order at the counter, and in the times she's said good morning to you. You've never responded. Don't want to encourage her. Put ideas in her head. Best to set clear borders.  

But you've seen her before. You know you have. 

What about you? Yes, you, the young lady in the ripped black hoodie. You've seen her, too, haven't you? 

She's smiled at you, dropped a coin into your cup on a number of occasions, asked you how you are although she doesn't know you. And that's just it, isn't it? She doesn't know you. She doesn't know what you've been through. You don't need her pity, she can go screw herself. She's a stranger and that's how she should bloody well stay: a stranger. You don't want to talk to her. You don't want to talk to anybody. 

But you've secretly watched her walk away, haven't you? With those discount trainers and that ridiculous Save the Bees bag. One of those do-gooders who wants a clap on the back for parting with one measly pound. Someone who always has some empty claptrap to spew about how you can get yourself out of the gutter if only you really, really want to. 

Although, if you think about it, she's never said anything like that, has she? 

You've seen her before. Even if you haven't wanted to. 

Her name is Evie, if any of you were wondering, and she believes that if she were to disappear off the face of the Earth, not one living soul would notice. 

She's wrong, of course, at least a handful of people would notice. People she passes by, or says hello to. People who never respond back. People who act like they can't hear her, can't see her.  

At some point, if she were absent for too long from the urban landscape they inhabit, her image would ghost through their heads and for a few moments, she'd be the centre of their entire world. Where she'd gone to? Why she wasn't still with them, as a fixture of the city and their daily lives?