Friday, September 29, 2006

A wee ego boost

I get the train this evening, as usual. I arrive from Cathcart to Central Station, and remember that I'm taking Linzi out for dinner tonight. I ought to get some money out.

A girl joins the (long, always long) queue for the cash machines ahead of me. We eye each other a split second longer than necessary. We half-smile in acknowledgement of our plight. The queue. Always a queue.

She has great legs. Tanned. Ankle-boots. Short skirt, black and white squares. Foreign, I suspect. She's not jaded-looking enough to be from here.

The other reason I think she might be foreign is because she's got a large suitcase. I have a sixth sense for these things, you see. She can't get the case to stand upright, so she has to keep a hand on it to stop it falling over .

I look. She's beautiful.


She's got a smaller bag too, which I deduce is for important personal items. The way I figure this out is: I watch her balance the suitcase and struggle to hold her jacket while trying to get her wallet out of the bag. Wallets are personal items.

Shit. The case. I'm an ignorant bastard.

"Oh, would you like me to hold your case while you-?"

"No, that's fine, thanks," she interrupts, but she smiles, to show she appreciates the offer. Australian. I knew it.

We catch each other's eye now and then after that, but it's not uncomfortable. I am in control. I am warm, floating. I am the Olympics.

It's her turn. She trundles her case over to the machine. There are two. I'm next.

The girl at the other machine is slow. It's a race, Aussie versus other girl. My eyes watch them, a tennis match. I want Aussie girl to win.

Aussie girl wins. She turns to me and smiles as she walks from the machine, proper friendly. I smile back, and go to get my money. I look to my left and see her struggling with her bags again, this time putting her stuff away.

Sometimes you just know things. I could have asked her for a drink. She would have said yes. Sometimes you just know.

And knowing's enough, of course. Knowing's all you need.

When I turn away from the machine, she's gone.

A fat man, smelly too, sits next to me on the train, but even he can't spoil my mood. I don't read today. I look at my fellow passengers. I almost smile. I am not scary. I am young. I am George Clooney. I am immortal.

For a while.

6 Comments:

Steph blathered this crap:

Ohh very sliding doors.
Trust an Aussie chick to be unco, although if it were me, my bag would have spilled open sending my unmentionables all over the place.

Kav blathered this crap:

Then you would've blogged about it steph, and made us all laugh at your misfortune.



Oh, and apologies for the gayness of this post, but she cheered me up so I wanted to write it down to remember it.

Michael blathered this crap:

Shit dude, now you know what it's like to be me 24/7. ;)

Cindy-Lou blathered this crap:

"I am George Clooney", that's a great line.

duckie blathered this crap:

did she have a dildo in her bag? If she started waving that thing around, then you would have known for sure. Otherwise, how do you know she just didn't have trouble with her bag?

Kav blathered this crap:

michael: Cocky bastid! :-)

cindy-lou: Thankee kindly.

duckie: Well, the fact that she was licking her lips provocatively while rubbing her body and writhing in front of me gave me a slight clue, but no, she didn't appear to have a dildo. Way to try and ruin my one moment of feeling all masculine and desirable and shit. dickie. :-)