Muse

A different sort of story today...

I can feel the wind blowing down the tunnel. That warm breeze that announces the arrival of a train. The smell of metal and grease mingles with the scent of humanity. The train slides noisily out of the darkness and stops at the eastbound platform opposite.

She is there on my platform. She always stands in the same place every day, just in front of the Tube map, about halfway towards the track. I have watched her every morning, and the longing has grown day by day, week by week, month by month. She’s not what would generally be called ‘beautiful’; she has a sort of fey quality about her that makes me stare. I guess she is a bit goth or emo, but without all the extras. Anyway, there she is, headphones in, oblivious.

Will today be the day? I beat myself up every day for never approaching her, even though I have sometimes mustered the courage to stand next to her, unnoticed. So I stare at my fingernails. The burgundy polish is chipped, and I have nervously scraped some of it off. Not a great way to make an impression. I can already feel myself using it as an excuse not to go up to her. No, that can’t be the only thing holding me back. Anyway, that’s just self-judgement, imagined ‘imposter syndrome’ calling me out.

I have wanted this for so long. I can feel a tightness in my chest. It’s crazy, really. I spend all day sitting behind a reception desk, talking to complete strangers, and that doesn’t bother me. To be honest, they barely register with me. I just go through the motions, and that seems to get the job done. They smile at me, sometimes flirt, but maybe that’s what’s expected? And so I seem good at my job, even though my thoughts are miles away, on this platform, at this moment.

A barely comprehensible announcement over the tannoy exhorting commuters to ‘Mind the Gap’ as they pack into the carriages opposite. An old woman stares out at my platform. It feels as if she is fixed on me, judging, telling me I will never fulfil my dreams – I haven’t got the nerve. Maybe she’s right? She looks away, and I realise she is reading a sign on the window, not eyeballing me at all. Paranoia creeps in around the edges when you don’t keep your guard up. With that in mind, I check the platform surveillance camera’s position. I’m not a fan of being watched, but as always, I am in the dead spot. A phantom of the Underground. That sounds like I should be the reason Sherlock Holmes is drawing on his pipe in deep thought. That almost makes me laugh out loud.

The eastbound train jerks away, roaring into the darkness once again, and I glance back at my muse. The platform is filling quickly now, and I am in danger of losing sight of her, so before I have entirely picked off my nail polish, I will move closer and try to calm the jackhammer in my chest. I squeeze my way past business types in suits, tracksuit wearers, would-be influencers with too much lip filler who are glued to their phones, and those who would rather be anywhere else in the world than waiting for an 8:35 tube train, clutching a latte in the hope that it will make sense of their existence. I try not to touch anyone as I move through the crowd. I have become quite adept at slipping through gaps and making myself unavailable to those who like to press up against me for whatever thrill it might evoke. I skirt around a group of young Japanese people talking animatedly and taking even more selfies than the would-be influencers, and I hold my bag in front of me like a snow plough to open any gaps that are too tight.

Okay, I am just behind her now. Glancing up, I can see the orange dot-matrix letters of the electronic sign. The train is two minutes away. This is it. I can’t let another opportunity pass, another wasted day without knowing. She steps closer to the yellow line, and I step a little closer, my bag still in front of me so we don’t get separated. Two minutes, one hundred and twenty seconds. It seems like an eternity as I wait for the whoosh of air. My heartbeat is calmer now. It’s almost as if I have entered some zone athletes talk about. I do like to kid myself. I feel the wind.

I hold my bag rigidly in front of me at waist level and give it a short, hard push with my hip, keeping the rest of my body as still as possible. And she falls. There is a flash of electricity, smoke, and then the train. I don’t know if she screamed; the shriek of the train’s brakes and the general pandemonium cover any other sounds. I step back and to one side as others press past me to help or to gawp; I’m not sure which, but there are plenty of mobile phones suddenly held up. Mobile phones – I mustn’t be caught in any of the videos recording this tragedy. I lower my face, my hair falling across it, and move further back into the crowd.

With my back against the wall, I start to breathe again. I was half worried it would be an anticlimax after months of mental foreplay, but it was better than I had hoped. I feel… God-like. Or at least more than human. There is almost a sexual rush, and I am suddenly aware of everyone around me as if I have been caught in some lewd act. They aren’t looking at me, but if they were, what would they see? Would I look different? How could they not know?

I slide along the wall towards the exit, passing the police as they rush through. I am shaking a little; it would be more if I weren’t hugging myself to avoid attracting attention. If I think about it rationally, anyone seeing me would think I had witnessed some terrible tragedy and was in a state of shock. Useful that. But now, as I walk towards the escalators, I am beginning to feel an emptiness. After all that anticipation, I need a new muse…