The Glove (3)
She sighed. Clutched the single glove tight in her hand. A fortieth birthday present from her mother. She loved the tight, flexible fit, and the way her engagement ring pressed through and created a crown of creases that everyone could see who looked at her hands, even in winter, that it was something special. She sighed a second time.
The carriage was warm.
Too warm.
And silent.
A few people stood and pretended not to look at her. A few peered shortsightedly at their mobile phones, some tried to sleep as the carriage rocked and rattled from side to side. Others read crushed newspapers, greasy books or peered like her into the middle distances of hope, dreams and the coming tasks of the day.
She always felt self conscious. She was taller than average. Her fine features, her open eyes, naturally raised eyebrows, and long light brown hair, made her something special to the local people in the community she had moved to as a younger woman: most people were smaller, sturdier with rounded earth like features: clearly she was from somewhere else.If not exotic, then for sure different from around here.
The different stations passed her by, the familiar names, sliding doors, the flow of passengers in and out of the yellow bubble of anonymous warmth and suspension of time just habits of movement. Unremarkable and unworthy even to note as she slipped into memories and loss, dreams and hopes as she came closer to her destination.
Something bothered her. She felt it. It grew as she got closer to her ,Haltestelle‘ her place of stopping. As if she was being scrutinised. She looked around her. Everyone was self absorbed. Noise was looking at her. That in itself was unusual. But it was not that at all. Almost a premonition.
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