She sits there, slumped against the window. Defeated; and bitter about it. Her hair is dissarayed, her eyes unfocused. She fiddles uselessly with the tiny paper balls she has crushed into existance.

She’s tired and even this teeny activity is more than she wants to manage. After a moments struggle against the discomfort of british rail, she slips away. Asleep. Hands against the pain and hands folded in her lap. Asleep.

Wouldn’t you have kissed her?