Tweet The train pulls into the station and the doors slide open with a hiss. Just like they do every day, the bankers and businessmen crowd around the door, so the boarding passengers have to jostle for space between them. I don't understand why people block the doors, but I've lived in this city for forty seven years now and I still don't understand their ways.
The tall woman gets on last. She's got legs up to her armpits, and the kind of bouncy hair that models swish about in TV adverts. An Amazon clad in businesswear. She's not interested in the women on the train so she doesn't notice me looking at her. Hmph, as I figured. Her skirt suit wants to be Chanel but is probably either eBay or a bad rip-off, while those skyscraper heels are pure bargain bin dressed up as Laboutin. I try to catch her scent but I'm overpowered by Gaultier.
Some of the bankers check this woman out. She feigns nonchalance but I watch her give them the once over when they look away. I don't think she's too impressed with what she sees. She's boxed in by short balding men wearing business suits a size too small, their puffy fingers suffocated by cheap wedding bands. They're like oversized sacks of blood carrying briefcases. I get a mental image of a leech holding an iPhone and resist the urge to giggle.
The woman looks up at the overhead advertisements. It looks like she's scanning the row, but her eyes aren't reading the ads. No, she's checking out the left hands of the businessmen holding the rail. She homes in on the one guy not wearing a wedding ring. I'm not surprised - he's cute. Spiky brown hair flecked with grey, strong jaw, cheekbones you could ski down - I'm sure that's an Alexander McQueen suit. I can't see what he's reading but I'd swear it's a comic book. I'm convinced he's reading Transmetropolitan.
She smiles. The men see a face worthy of L'Oreal, but I see a cat that's spotted a mouse. A predator. I watch her attempts to squeeze through the crowd of married men to the singleton, but the bankers won't let her past. They want her where they can see her. The woman adjusts the fake Chanel, flashing the rings on her finger. Cubic zirconia. Classy. Cheap bait for expensive fish.
The train pulls into the next station. The doors open and Mr Cute looks up from his comic book. I was right, he does have puppy dog eyes. He slides the comic into his laptop bag and joins the crowd clamouring to get off. I can't help thinking their task would be made easier if the people on the platform let them off the train before they try and get on, but as I said, I still don't understand the mindset of these humans.
Ms Fake Laboutin looks alarmed, and shoves through the sweaty bankers toward the nearest doors. She steps down onto the platform just in time. As the train lurches out of the station, I catch sight of her through the window. She's stalking her prey toward the exit.
I turn my attention back to the bankers. The one beside me catches my eye and smiles in that leering fashion older men think is attractive. His jowls wobble and his watery eyes glisten among folds of red flesh. I can only imagine what he's thinking as he stares at what he thinks is a 23-year-old girl. I smile back all the same. I'm sure he'll taste delicious.