Faces, faces. A forest of faces. They reveal so very little! For example, across from me now, as we rattled through the dark alleyways of the underground, sits an oldish looking woman, her face is finely covered in downy, white hairs, her hair looks a little like a ruffled field of tawny heather, you know the kind I mean- with one of those short haircuts which were probably fashionable when she was young, but where the dye has slowly seeped out and you see the autumnal contrast. Time and delicately folded her face.
Her expression I cannot read. Well I could, but I would almost certainly be misreading it. Consider! She is frowning, but the frown could mean a thousand things! Does her back hurt? Or is that ageist? It is, isn't it? Well never mind, I'm only thinking it, she doesn't know. Is she thinking about her dinner? Her household chores? For all I know she could be a lecturer, we are in London after all, there are lots of universities. But there is something sour in it. Her face seems to be hardening. Perhaps I'm staring and she can feel it. Oh, I am, I'd better unpark my eyes from her face and move on.
Right, what about the man diagonally to my right, the one leaning on the pole. That MacDonald yellow pole. He looks a bit scruffy himself. Must be the recession. Again, grumpy! Oh so grumpy! Why must commuters always be so blue? The rattling of the train shakes him, and his faded jeans quiver a little. Is that a little smile of satisfaction that he hasn't been jolted by the train? Train surfer. Hardened train surfer. I want to shake his hand, but that's just not socially acceptable. But no, it was a grimace that traversed his face. He has silvery stubble. Looks like a smoker.
Oh look, now a pregnant lady steps aboard. Welcome to the house of fun, eh? Her crimson lipstick looks a bit like clown make-up, but she's quite pretty overall. She's wearing a floral wrap-dress. Her cheeks are slighlty puffy, and the make-up under her eyes isn't quite right the same shade as the rest of her face. Mascara? Maybe, I can't tell, she may just have long lashes. The fact that she's wearing make-up might suggest that this is her first pregnancy, I mean, you wouldn't have time for that if you had a handful of screaming, bawling fledglings to greet you with their hoarse chorus every morning, would you? Or maybe she's just overweight...no, look, she's reading a domestic-looking magazine. Broody.
The rattling of the train starts to rock me gently. The pneumatic doors shut and open at the next station, sucking in the air. The amniotic temperature of the carriage is so very sleep-inducing. I shuffle to the next song of my i-pod. Couldn't live without it. Poignant lyrics stored in that little thing. Soundtrack to my life. Or my journeys, anyway.
I look up. I just cannot get over how disapproving they all look. The carriage is stuffed full of faces now. Old faces. Middle ages faces. Female faces, male faces. Motherly faces, unemployed faces, very employed faces, pierces faces, wrinkled faces. It suddenly seems very tense. They all seem to be intently looking at me. Or concentrating very hard on something else. Or appearing to.
'Excuse me.' said a travel-weary voice.
Oh wow, people talk to each other here.
'Excuse me,' it repeated.
I glance up. Oh, me! Oh, he's talking to me. Um.
'Look, young man, I think I speak for everyone here when I say, can you please turn that infernal music off? We can all hear it, and it would make our journey far pleasanter if we couldn't! Thank you.'
I'm shocked. His face is practically in my face. I can smell his tomato-soup breath, and oh, I can read his expression perfectly. Annoyance. Impatience. He is leaning forward, either for effect, or so that nobody else will hear. Except I know they all heard!
I redden, turn off the music, mumble an apology. One more stop and I'll be away from this glaring sea of faces. I'll surface! The lights glare down at me. The window resolutely reflects back my own flushed face.
Copyright © 2008 Rob Richardson. All Rights Reserved.