'Opposite Ends of the Tracks' by Martha Lane

 

She carefully applies lipstick the colour of cranberry juice. She imagines it is for someone particular. Just for a moment.
He gives his moustache one last comb. He imagines it is for someone particular. Just for a moment.

She locks her door, modern PVC, lifts the handle and twists the key.

He locks his door, old-fashioned, Yale and keyhole, have to have the knack.
She gets on at the end of the Metro where the trains run alongside the ocean, carving through salt mist and stinking of factor 30.
He gets on at the end of the Metro where the trains run below the planes, trembling under chainmail roars and stinking of duty free perfume.
She folds her newspaper back and tuts at the news.
He shakes his newspaper out wide and tuts at the news.
She avoids eye contact.
He avoids eye contact.
She gets off in the middle of the Metro where a stone duke stands tall, and wipes her hands with antibacterial soap as she steps carefully onto the escalator. 
He gets off in the middle of the Metro where a stone duke stands tall, and wipes his hands with an antibacterial wipe as he steps carefully onto the escalator. 
She drops her pass.
He picks up a pass.
She feels a spark as cool fingers touch her skin and a moustache smiles at her.
He feels a spark as warm fingers flex and a cranberry mouth parts slightly.
She walks in pace with size ten loafers. Just for a moment.
He walks in pace with size six brogues. Just for a moment.