They strutted onto the tube carriage, looking and smelling of sex. Smiles, giggles, tussled hair, warm touches. And I hated them for it. The Victoria Line, a thankfully noisy line, drowned out their conversation as the train whined through the tunnels towards South London. They sat opposite each other, he was gently caressing her knee while she lent back content at another night’s fuck.
Really, I hated both of them. The smug bastards, screaming out to the rest of the world that we are getting laid, so hey hey. Piss off. And they did, two stops later, as they alighted off the train, probably to somewhere posh like West London, along the Central Line to their respective homes under the Heathrow flight path.
Look, I know, it’s unreasonable to hate lovers, two people who are, in the end, minding their own business, and, who are just happy with each other. But that is the case. I am not happy. Not with me, not with anyone. It is not single, but something more complex than that. When I see her I love her, but at the same time, I cannot help but think of someone else. Someone who I have left behind, and whether I made the right choice. Sex is sex, beautiful, fun, fucking great, but I am no longer satisfied. Like eating when you are full, it is mechanical instead of joyful. I gaze at the tunnel wall as the train speeds through under the city. More people above me, some loving their lives and each other, others miserable like me. How much of that misery is a choice, like mine?
My stop, time to haul myself out of the seat. A pretty girl stands on the platform, our eyes meet for an instance, as she walks in and I walk out. Still wandering, my thoughts, my emotions, my passion. Nothing ever settles down for good…