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Tuesday evening. A quarter past eight. It’s dark out. As the train eases out of the main station, the interior of the carriage reflects in the window. I’m right at the front of the train, my back to the driver’s cabin. There aren’t many people in this carriage, since most can’t be bothered to walk the full length of the platform. Nevertheless, I have two people in close proximity. On my left, next to the aisle, is a man dressed in a shirt and a jacket. He’s taken his overcoat off and laid it on the seat opposite.

Opposite me is a woman. She too has removed her coat. I don’t look at her directly. Instead I regard her reflection in the window. I recognize her, or rather I half recognize her. I haven’t seen her face before, only images of her from other angles. She looks nice, a little preoccupied. Her dark hair would tumble down over her shoulders if it wasn’t pulled up and fastened with a bulldog clip. She’s sparing with her make-up, lip-gloss rather than lipstick, just a hint of drama about the eyes. If her cheeks look a little red, I doubt that it’s rouge. I imagine her as a receptionist or something, effortlessly efficient, always friendly.

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