Talk on the Tube

Was down in Tooting last night to see an intense and up close version of Sweeney Todd at Harringtons Pie and Mash Shop. A fitting setting. My love of eavesdropping and people-watching came back to me in a rush.

I noticed a book between the pale fingers of the young woman who sat beside me. The embossed, blue-grey design on the cover incorporated the capital letters I B S E N arrayed diagonally. I didn’t understand the language of the title on the book’s spine, nor could I firmly place it as Swedish, Danish or Dutch. The girl’s face didn’t yield an answer, either. Although slender, everything about her seemed round about the edges, from the curled hair piled and pinned on her head to the curved tip of her brown leather shoes. She tapped a slender pencil against her lips. Was her book a family heirloom to help bide the time commuting in London? Perhaps the parting advice of a concerned mother?

At the next station, the usual exchange of passengers alighted and embarked. A man in his early 40’s clad in massive brown work boots offered his seat to a standing woman. His gesture was more casually polite than gentlemanly. Her facial muscles contracted as though slapped into smiling.

“No, really. It’s ok. I’m FINE.” The man’s spine curved in a slump and he dropped himself onto the seat. With his legs spread apart, a single hand cradled a head containing one bewildered brain. He glanced at the other passengers for some sign of an answer. I avoided his gaze.

Thankfully Old Street was the next stop.