Returning from watching Les Miserables, I was in an oddly cheery mood, given the subject matter of the musical. I’d seen a visiting friend off home, and was now returning home when she got on.
She was with her friends, and they’d been sitting in front of me in Les Mis. It wouldn’t have mattered, because she was the kind I would have noticed across the theatre. Her hair was almost a cherry blonde, darker perhaps, artificial, a shining beacon that made her unmistakable. The vagaries of connections on the underground meant we made it to the same train, the same carriage, despite my earlier detour.
Perhaps she recognised me, as she sat opposite, for she flashed a small smile my way. Perhaps it was just a brief courtesy when eyes met, for I had my headphones on. I turned the music down a little, eavesdropping on the conversation with her friends, sitting to the side of me, held across the carriage.
From the accents of her and another, I imagined them to be tourists; her accent suggested Chinese, though her command of English was good - perhaps Hong Kong. Settled in the seat, she turned her attention to her shopping. The bags were unique, one suggesting a visit to the milliner, the other a Harrods bag design I’d not seen before, Harrods further enforcing the tourist image.
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