On the Jubilee line

She is leaning against a scratched plexiglass surface, reading the paper when the train pulls in to Westminster. She grimaces and braces herself for the onslaught of dark suited City types with their lap top bags and single note, bespoke fragrances. She coils in to herself as a tall man comes and stands in front of her presenting his broad back and the pinstriped wool that is stretched over it. His hair is a floppy and the colour of sand. Tousleable. Is that a word? He smells like vanilla. The hairs at the back of her neck prickle and she feels a faint, long forgotten stirring below. It has been a while, a year to be exact. As the train arrives at Waterloo she allows herself to lurch forward with it, her hand reaching out to steady herself on his shoulder, her cheek grazing the wool, her nostrils delicately flaring out and inhaling his essence. She mumbles an apology and tumbles out alone on to the platform.