The horror of intimacy on the Underground

Sometimes the Underground can be a little too close for comfort.

The horror of intimacy on the Underground

He took up a bit too much of my seat on the tube for me to be comfortable
he knew this, but how could he not?
An elephantine thigh caresses me as I try to read the book I offered to review for a voucher to spend a shop I boycott,
so I will just feel bad spending it anyway.

As I flick the page, words barely register as I shuffle
but he just expands.
Not realising I am edging away, to breathe myself instead of being seduced by rub of denim on polyester as the train bounces
Up
and down
and Up.

The trickle of sweat on my brow is summer induced but makes me look as bad,
in my eyes,
as the unwashed mass I travel half an hour later than most just to avoid.
No one else notices
but that doesn’t matter when your forehead shines in the window opposite as you fly down tunnels beneath a city born of revolutions past and living with a distain for the present so unyielding that people walk around in clothes from the eighties

and think they are
it.

Maybe the future will bring me and the man invading my personal space together again.
I hope not.

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