¬

The woman behind her couldn't help noticing that she pressed the button to open the door with the utmost care, quite obviously in no rush. She waited, three fingers placed in a triangle on the raised word 'Open'; and, when lit, she pressed it gently, once. Waited again. The door opened. She stepped down; onto the step first, then the platform. Strode across to the other side, sipping her coffee. Sat down. Stared intently at the track, removed a small piece of paper from the book she was carrying, and began to read.

 

Afterwards, the woman would wonder why she had been quite so enthralled by the person in front of her; why she had paid attention to her every step. She would receive no answer, for none was needed.

 

The girl got on the next train and cut across the crowd between the carriages, heading for the open door of the cramped toilet. Luckily, there was no leakage today; unusually. The girl smiled, amused that on the day she was leaking, the toilet was not. 'Period costume', her husband called it. She looked at herself in the mirror, pulled out a powder compact from her bag. Creating her mask, she saluted the door with the middle finger of her right hand as someone tried it to see if it was locked. Her make-up took no more than thirty seconds, then she was out again, smiling at the woman who had rattled the door as she walked past, plonked herself gracelessly down on the floor and opened her book.