The Girl in the Denim Jacket

The clock in the living room has just struck two, but I'm still awake. Wide awake. Usually I'm a good sleeper, but not tonight. I can't stop thinking about that girl. I've got to write down what happened.    It was this evening around seven thirty, as I was on my way home from college. I was waiting for the connection at Willesden Junction. As usual at that time of night, there was only one train to Watford every twenty minutes, and the platform was crowded. Most of the people looked pretty familiar, the kind of people who stand on the same platform at the same time every day;  ordinary people going about their ordinary life.

    Then, just near me, I noticed this girl. I reckon she was a bit younger than me, seventeen or eighteen maybe. She had on a thick denim jacket, and was carrying a bag which looked as if it contained books. She wasn't talking to anyone, just standing alone. There was nothing unusual about that, mind you; most of the people on the platform were standing alone, stabbing their phones or pads, staring at their feet, or looking anxiously down the railway track, as if by doing so they would make the next train come sooner. But the girl — she didn't seem to be looking at anything.
    She was pretty, I thought. Very pretty, in fact. Shoulder-length brown hair, and a kind-looking face. From where I was standing, and under the poor light of the station platform, I couldn't make out the colour of her eyes.
    Now I don't usually stare at girls on station platforms, but somehow I couldn't keep my eyes off the girl in the denim jacket. Perhaps she realized I was looking at her, for suddenly she turned in my direction and looked straight at me; straight in the eyes. Normally that would have been enough to make me turn away and look in the other direction, and pretend I hadn't been looking at her, but this time I couldn't turn away. There was something in the way she looked that stopped me turning.
    I imagined she would look away from me, or even move further down the platform to avoid me, but she didn't. To my surprise, a smile came to her lips, almost the sort of smile that you give when you meet an old friend again after a long absence — though I'm certain I had never seen her before.
    At that moment, there was a rumbling behind my back, and an underground train rolled into the station. The mass of people waiting on the platform surged forward, to compete for standing room and something to hang on to in the already-crowded train. 
    Though the girl and I got into the same carriage, I lost sight of her in the crush inside. I was hedged in between two enormous fat businessmen, who were talking their heads off about banks and investment. She was somewhere in front of me.
    However, from one station to the next the carriage slowly emptied, and when we got past Wembley, there was almost room for everyone to sit down. She was still standing though, about twenty feet from me, and looking in my direction.
    Between us, I noticed two empty seats. Tired of standing, I moved over and sat down in one of them; hardly had I done so however than, to my surprise and secret pleasure, the girl moved up and sat down in the other.
    For some reason I felt embarrassed. I managed to bring out a half-hearted "hello again", and smiled at her. As she smiled back at me, I could see that she was indeed very pretty. There was a shine in her soft dark eyes, but at the same time she looked worried; strangely worried.


End of part 1.    


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