‘When it happens, I guess,’ I spluttered into my tea, my cheeks turning pink.
‘Can you hurry up? Your thirties are just around the corner, you know!’
How could I not know when I was reminded every month, mostly by her only sister, my Aunt Lottie – short for Lotifah, not Charlotte.
The reason I was still single was because I had whatever it was that was less than having zero ‘game’. I couldn’t maintain eye contact for longer than a millisecond with any man I was remotely attracted to. The fact that this good-looking man was talking to me, despite getting a glimpse of my insecurities, was mind-boggling.
‘So . . . how was your weekend?’ TubeGuy asked, like it was the most normal question to ask a stranger on the Tube. I looked into his eyes, framed in the thickest, darkest lashes, feeling a stirring in the pit of my stomach.
‘It was all right,’ I croaked, my throat feeling unusually dry. All right? Was that the best I could come up with? Pulling out a three-day-old bottle of water from my Mary Poppins bag, I took a quick swig, trying to calm my nerves. If I left my answer at that, there was a chance he would give up trying to converse with me.
I heard Aunt Lottie’s voice in my head, screeching at me to hurry up and find a husband. ‘How will you ever get married if you can’t talk to a man?’ Fair point. Taking a deep breath, I attempted to prolong the conversation.
‘How was yours?’ I managed to mumble.
‘So good,’ he said, his entire face alive with enthusiasm. ‘Went to see the new Marvel movie on Friday night and then on Saturday we went to this interactive art installation thing at the Tate. It was so cool.’
TubeGuy started telling me all about the exhibition and I observed him as though I were watching a performance, completely enraptured, barely registering the actual words coming out of his lips. This whole experience was surreal, but I decided to enjoy it instead of questioning his motives. Maybe there were still decent people in the world who weren’t after something. Not every strange male was a potential murderer/rapist/abuser/threat.
He moved his hands a lot when he spoke. His fingers were long and slender and his nails were neatly trimmed. He was fair-skinned, but I couldn’t tell if he was English white or European white, not that it mattered. His accent was pure London though, like mine. A little rough around the edges and I liked it. He was wearing a black leather biker jacket over a plain white T-shirt and denim jeans that hugged his muscular legs. There was a slightly worn sports bag on his lap, with a leather notebook on top of it, so I guessed he was probably on his way to work. His hair was light brown, longish at the top, and he had the same colour facial hair, which was perfectly sculpted to make the most of his sharp jawline. His nose was a bit on the large side, with a bump on the bridge which I thought made him look strong and regal. He was beautiful and as he spoke, his face was animated, his grin easy.
‘Sorry, I talk a lot,’ he said when he finally came up for air as the train pulled into Caledonian Road Station. ‘What did you get up to?’
This was my time to shine, to say something really witty so he would remember the girl on the train for something other than dodgy makeup skills. Unsurprisingly, nothing interesting came to mind.
‘I also watched that movie,’ I told him.
‘Oh really?’ He looked pleasantly surprised. ‘Did you like it?’
‘Loved it. But then, I’m a die-hard Marvel fan.’
‘What? No way! So am I! Who’s your favourite character?’
‘Iron Man,’ I replied, without skipping a beat. ‘All day, every day.’
‘Not Thor, with this golden mane and muscular physique?’
‘Nope. Brains over brawn any day. They’re both funny, but Tony’s humour is clever. Thor’s is more slapstick.’
‘Tony, huh? You’re on first-name terms with him then?’
‘Hey, I cried in Endgame. Buckets. I think that earnt me the right to call him by his first name.’
The train began to slow down and as it crawled to a stop at King’s Cross, TubeGuy grabbed his bag and notebook and stood up, along with half the carriage. I stared at him in disappointment. Just when I had finally started loosening up, he was going to get off.
I opened my mouth to say goodbye to him, but it turned out I didn’t need to. He didn’t get off the train, he changed seats to one right next to me.
‘Now I’ll be able to hear you properly,’ he smiled, turning his body so he was facing me.
Having TubeGuy beside me was a completely different sensation from having him across from me. I couldn’t see him as well, but my other senses came alive. I could smell him now, a mix of soap and sandalwood. I could feel his warmth where our bodies met on the armrest we shared. It was intoxicating.
I caught Ms Fabulous smiling wistfully at us, like she couldn’t believe that she was watching a real-life romcom play out in front of her. I felt bad for cursing her earlier.
‘So which camp are you?’ I croaked, trying to steady my starved, beating heart. ‘Black Widow or Captain Marvel?’
He waited a moment before he answered. I could tell that he was taking my question seriously, which I found crazily endearing. I hoped he would hurry up and answer. I still didn’t know when he was getting off the train and I was suddenly desperate to know if he was more of a curves guy (aka Team Black Widow) or a power guy (Team Captain Marvel).
‘Neither,’ he said thoughtfully, his eyebrows knitted together in concentration. ‘I like Gamora.’
‘Huh? The green one?’
‘Yes, the “green one”,’ he laughed. ‘She’s also determined, resourceful and forgiving. She had a tough upbringing, what with Thanos and all that, but despite that, she had a heart of gold.’
‘Are those characteristics you look for in a . . . friend?’ I found myself asking without thinking. Because if I had been thinking, I would have completely clammed up. This wasn’t like me at all, to engage and almost flirt with a stranger on the Tube.
‘I guess so, hadn’t really thought about it,’ he replied. ‘Does that mean to get your attention, someone would have to be super smart, super funny AND super rich and successful?’
‘Definitely,’ I joked. ‘Building a skyscraper and naming it after themselves is a bare minimum. So is flying.’
A homeless man got onto the train at Holborn. He looked young, in his thirties maybe and cold. It was September, my birthday month, and the weather had turned recently. It was at that point when it was warm in the sun, but cold in the shade; almost like being in-between two seasons, between daylight and nightfall. He must have been freezing at night.
As he approached us, his head down, his weathered fingers wrapped around a battered paper coffee cup, I took out my purse and grabbed the only cash I had on me – a ten-pound note. I stuffed it into the cup and offered the man a small smile. TubeGuy did the same, pulling out his wallet and putting a note into the cup.
‘Thank you,’ the man whispered, his watery blue eyes looking as exhausted as the rest of him. ‘Both of you.’
‘Our pleasure,’ TubeGuy and I replied in unison.
The man moved on and waited by the doors. When he got off at Covent Garden, TubeGuy turned to look at me.
