I was smoking. Camel ofcourse. No other lesser brands. Seconds after I put the zippo I bought in Thailand away. Click. A girl approaches me. Bag on her back. Travel one. She had colored hair, blue, bunned up. She looked cute, and exotic but her style didnt do it for me.
She asked for a lighter. I whipped out the zippo. Flicked it open. Choonk.
She fumbled for a handrolled cigarette.
Means she smokes a lot.
I lit up the small white stick.
We chat. Shes iranian.
I am not attracted to her. But i hear one can be mature and talk to women anyways.
I attract artists. I know this. She wears olive green pants, reddish shoes. And a field jacket. Wears a necklace.
I ask her occupation.
She is a visual artist.
Money. Eye of the tiger.
We have the same train. I suggest we board.
We settle in and shes very quiet.
I think, Is it not a waste of time, if I dont like her?
And I am stuck with her for 3 hours on the train. Less, cos she had a layover. So two hours sitting next to someone I dont really vibe with.
I text with an Irish friend. Tell him. He says, She must have stories.
I look to her. Shes napping. Great. I tweet and insta story tweet.
Im fine. I stare in the air. Insta meds. Meditations.
She wakes up. I show interest in her, as a person.
Tell me more about Iran. She comes alive. Her eyes sparkle. She talks about oceans, and islands. Deserts.
She talks about family. StruGgles, and politics, and life.
I learn. I take it in, and understand life is one big story. Its all stories, man.
I feel the connection now tho. I look her in the eyes. Tension. She has the same color eyes.
She looks at my lips. I notice things.
I tell the Irish friend. He was right.
I continue to kino escalate, for the nerds here. But just for fun.
I tease her. Said she was snoring. She laughs. I smile.
I dont laugh often.
Earlier, I had asked her insta. Reflex. Just get contacts.
She didnt have it. I said thats good. Smart people and best women dont have insta and social media. Now on the train, I think, Ask for number? But why. I decide no. This is just like that Hawke film. Two strangers on a train, a story. A mozaique, in time.
Slowly, with breaks, and staring, and silences, looking away, and back again, conversation progresses.
Its zen. Smooth. And calm. 0 awkwardness. Chill. Like being high.
Well I had half a bottle of vodka, last night. After effects. The haze. She, reserved.
She tells me about her necklace. The pendant hanging from it. A blue and white piece of tile.
Broken off. There was a great flood in Iran. Loads dead. She strokes the cord of the necklace.
Her eyes glimmer back.
She says shes a sculptor. I like that. I ask more. I listen.
I tell about my writing. My job. Im an enGineer. I build. I talk about my life. Parties, friends, upcoming weddings. I play the part, a character in a story. Who tells stories. I am a storyteller. Time passes and the 2 hours flew by. She has to leave.
She puts on her field jacket. Subtle sign. I say you have to leave. She nods, slowly. I grab her hand. Its warm. I squeeze. She doesnt squeeze back. She says, It was so nice. I wish you a perfect life. I say, Life aint perfect. She nods. I wish her well.
I get up. And she puts on her bag. She has two bags in her hands. I hold a door open for her. She puts down her bags. Hugs me. I think I said, Goodbye. She walks away.