Hungry, but not.

Hungry, but not. It is the evening now. Train travel home on a journey from a course. Via a hotel room, tucked into the eaves, warm baths and bad TV. Outside the window, the cloudless sky is navy blue, dark azure, nearly black. Bartok on the Ipod. Have spent days in movement and drama - fleshy art crafted from muscles and minds. Hands danced against locked yellow light. In the train carriage, a stark bob bissects a passenger's chin. A fat bespectacled lady rustles her evening paper. A biscuit box is opened. To eat or not to eat? Have consumed an apple. Sushi for lunch.  Heat. Heat. Heat. The sun has stolen my hunger.  Would like a cup of tea and something sweet, made with salted butter, just a pinch. Bartok bangs on piano keys, up down, up down, rhythms rolling. "Le train est a destination de..." says a voice, falling from the speakers, reaching our ears. I could stay here forever, bound into this train, watching the bob and the newspaper rustle.  Suited men carry cases as we leave another station. We are off. We. Are. Off.

January morning 3: On the train

I drink my almost cold, microwave heated coffee, eat a sliced bread sandwich filled with a skim of butter covered with pear and apple spread. Opposite me, a tailored, tall, middle-aged man reads the Figaro newspaper. He wears frameless glasses, a well-cut winter coat, a tousle of grey hair and a whiff of aftershave. I imagine his midriff as plump, from too much Christmas foie gras. He has slip on black shoes and a neat beak of an acquiline nose. His mouth purses as he reads, pulling skin forward from a slowly sagging jaw. He would, I imagine tickle a grandchild with glee, sack an employee fearlessly and must of tasted the forbidden delight of une maitresse. At least, this is what I imagine from my seat on the train as we travel through an early January hour.

January morning 2: On the train

On the train, two teenage girls, in beige and black puffas, describe late nights, sleeping and lost loves, whilst a third, quiet girl listens. She scratches freshly washed hair with a bitten nail and fervently texts someone, somewhere. Under the citric glow of the carriage lamps, we speed through the early morning winter darkness. I drink black coffee, eat a spelt bread sandwich and dream of another day.