Work Text:
The carriage ploughs along tiredly, as it always does.
She thinks, fleetingly, about how these musty little pods are the mainstay of her ever-evolving life in this sprawling city. What a dirty, cramped little comfort it is to feel the same undulating rumble of tunnels all around each day. A curious constant. Not the only one.
She lifts her eyes to the chipped and graffitied vertical bar she clutches for balance and notes, with a satisfied warmth, the far larger hand resting an inch above her own. Hairy and coarse. Deft and strong. Punches faces and stirs tea. Pretty? No. Beautiful? Yes.
Under flickering white strip lights, she raises her gaze to the face she now knows by heart. His eyes, crinkly and battle-beaten, flutter closed for a moment’s upright rest. A long day.
He’ll walk her home. It’s something he does now, after the pub. Something that just happened one night and kept happening. Each night the same slick dance, of alcohol and conversation followed by underground travel and a painfully short walk where shoulders bump and hands brush progressively more often.
Then a bid goodnight. A wistful smile. A reluctantly turned head and closed door.
Constant.
She scans the dusty seats occupied by suits and ties and is pondering if these interchangeable pinstriped people have wives or hobbies or houseplants when she senses a physical change. An intangible shift.
His hand is closer now. Hairy pinky finger laid flat against polished index. He has huddled in closer to her side and when she looks up, he braves a smile that brims with affection, which she shyly returns. It feels good, and so she folds this moment up neatly, smooths it flat, and stores it away for later.
The rapidly emptying car lumbers on unremarkably through the coloured lines, gorgeously unaware of the blossoming story inside.