Underground

Down and down they go. Down escalators and stairs. Little ants marching along brightly lit tunnels. Posters and advertisements accompany them every step of the way. They spill out onto the congested platform. Toes tapping. They glance at watches every other second. A disembodied voice shrieks over the Tannoy. The impatient throng murmurs. Everyone is late. Everyone is always late. The tracks rattle. Celestial lights shoot out from the darkness. The crowd pushes dangerously behind the thick yellow line. Mind the Gap. Mind the Gap. Mind the bloody Gap. The enclosed cave fills with a thunderous roar. A gust of chilly air hits them smack in the face. The train grinds to a screeching halt. Whoosh. The doors open. Passengers fall out on top of the waiting queues. They shove back in return. They elbow. They squeeze themselves in, filling every last available space. An orgy of intertwined contortionists. The doors close. Bang. They open again. “Please keep clear from the doors. Keep clear from the doors please. ” Closed. An over packed suitcase bursting at the zipper. The horizontal rocket shoots off into the all-consuming shadows. A chorus of newspapers rustle. The Evening Standard. The Metro. The Guardian. Books, phones, iPods are pulled out from jacket pockets. Minds disengaged from bodies that loll from side to side. The salesman next to the Sheikh. The chic yuppie back-to-back with the Sports Direct clad yob. A deranged metallic clanging cries out from beneath them. Eyes peer covertly from behind books to peruse rainbow coloured maps. If eyes meet, they are averted at cosmic speeds. That is the rule. Coughs. Sneezes. Yawns. They inhale a cocktail of distilled germs. The depleting air is suffused with the aromas of a thousand take-away lunches. Greggs. McDonald’s. Nando’s. Wok-in-a-Box. M&S and Pret A Manger for the more refined. Franchise coffee is on the breath of everyone. No one dare breathe. No one can escape the monstrous melting pot moving en masse.

Should I Tell You?

Should I tell you? Should I tell you that Jim is cheating on you? Or do you know? Are you one of these modern couples that are OK with friends with benefits? And if I told you and that were true, would you think me prudish? Wouldn't it be best to tell you anyway, just in case?

But how do I tell you? Do I send you an anonymous tip-off? Do I tell one of your girlfriends so that they can break the news to you? Or do I come out with it matter-of-factly? What is the protocol in these situations? Do I invite myself over on the grounds that I have important news you need to know? But then how can I make sure Jim isn’t going to be there? Should I ask to meet you over a coffee or a walk in the park perhaps? Or is it best to avoid public places in these circumstances? Would you think it unusual or even forward of me to ask you over to my place alone? Would you decline? And if you did say yes at what part of the conversation do I bring up Jim’s cheating? Do I need to make chit chat when you come in? Or should I look serious from the start? Is this a sofa or a kitchen-table conversation? Do I serve tea? Why am I thinking about sofas and tea?

Once we are seated do I just say that I was out last weekend and saw Jim with another woman? How much more information should I reveal? Should I mention that she was blonde and beautiful? Would you want to hear about the way they kissed, the way they felt each other up? Or would that be too much? Do I tell you that I followed them from club to club, watched as they got drunker and drunker and more and more intimate? And when they finally stumbled out onto the cold damp streets just as dawn was breaking and jumped into a cab together, do I tell you that I trailed them like some seedy P.I. until they pulled up outside a hotel? Would you think my actions disturbing, excessive? Would you ask why I didn’t intervene? Why I didn’t phone you up immediately? Why I let it wait five whole days? Would you never want to speak to me again?

Or would you move into my arms and let me comfort you? Would you let me stroke your hair and whisper in your ear that everything would be OK? Do I tell you that you deserve better than Jim? Would you realise that I am better?

Written Photograph

Wisps of chestnut hair fall lightly on his unruffled forehead. Earlobes protrude from underneath his fashionably unkempt hair. Dangling from these fleshy gewgaws is a pair of earphones; the black jelly-wire frames the lower half of his face. He doesn’t react at all to the music escaping from the beetle-like speakers in his ears. Whatever he is listening to serves less as entertainment and more as a means to drown out the café babble around him so he can focus on the paperback in his delicate hands. In fact his entire willowy body seems to arch over the fantasy novel in attempt to enter the magical fiefdom contained within. He bites his tender pink lips - in all probability still unkissed - and squints in concentration as his brown as ale eyes trail the words on the page. An impish asymmetrical grin appears on his face for a fleeting second but his expression contorts back into concentration almost instantaneously.

He is cherub faced if such a cherub were amid the whirlpool of puberty. Blotches of scarlet appear around his oily temples and chin where acne molehills seem ready to erupt at any second. A faint shadow is busily rooting itself above the upper lip, destined to grow darker and denser in the coming years.

Despite it being a few sizes too big, he wears his t-shirt with apparent honour. This black garment demonstrates his allegiance to some Scandinavian metal band or other. It also makes his skin appear paler and pastier. His gawky frame hangs loosely from his shoulders as a bathrobe does from a hanger. His legs stretch out awkwardly underneath the table, right foot now tapping away idly. A hand leaves the book and reflexively flicks away the silky strands on his brow. He shifts himself into a more comfortable position, angling his body and resting his head on his hand.