Ring me on the train

I guess telephone numbers.

I suppose it was a hobby. An obsession. Harmless fun, and a good ice-breaker.

The train hurdled over the green country hills. Diving straight into the blue sky. The carriage was old, one of those Victorian ones, reallocated from London into the leafy suburbs. It was on this island of the past my future was sculptured.

I was sitting in a balding red chair, and had my head firmly clamped into a science magazine. I stared at a block of text. I wasn’t in the mood for reading, but I kept the magazine propped up, that way I had somewhere to look. On a train if you look at a woman, you’re a sexual predator. A man, you’re gay. And a child you should be locked up. The magazine was my best bet.

A woman sat next to me. I shuffled over and placed my coat between us.

“New Scientist, huh?”. She grinned.

Without moving my head: I slowly closed the magazine, placed it in my lap and paused.


She stared.

“Oh my God!”

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