A boy in a striped shirt and folded jeans asks as he holds up a strawberry-printed handkerchief. Which incidentally isn’t mine. But I linger on quietly, trying to get a good look at his face. I pretend I didn’t hear him. Stupid, I know. That’s just the way I am.
He smiles awkwardly, as if he just realized he’s been trying to talk to an idiot all along. “Not yours, then?”
I run out of ideas to stall the “conversation”. I was never good at making up things. Perhaps, this is why I became an accountant. Numbers are definite things; there is always an answer. Yes, I am that kind of person.
The way I am secretly ogling at this boy is quite uncharacteristic of me. I have never been in a relationship and have never been curious enough to even get involved in silly flings.
Damn these trains and their grand entrance. The strong wind that signifies a train’s arrival causes much inconvenience when it comes to my hair. I fix it like a loony before I leave the house, always fixing it so obsessively. I guess it’s because it’s the only part of me that gets complimented on so frequently. And despite knowing that standing at such close proximity like I always do can cause this kind of annoyance, I carry on with it everyday. I fix it, the wind ruins it, I mend it. Repeat if the train’s too full that I would have to wait for another one to come along.
I look up at him alarmingly. “Damn the train and the wind, I mean,” I say as I furiously finger through my messed up locks. “Not you.” I smile.
He nods and waves the handkerchief at me.
"It’s not mine, sorry."
With eyebrows raised, he nods and steps into the train. I stand there frozen, feeling stupid and all too ordinary. Too normal. That’s just the way I am.
As the doors close, I get back from my momentary withdrawal from this world. I stupidly knock on the door, eyes still locked into the stranger’s. Then I realize that it’s too late. The train hisses as it prepares to leave.
There goes the strong wind that signifies the train’s departure. And my stupid hair’s ruin.