My brow was furrowed. I could scarcely read the words upon the page, never mind admit the truth of them. I marvelled sickly at the vistas that paraded behind my eyes as I perused the final pages, crumbling as my fingers brushed them. The gentleman opposite sat, his feet up on the seat beside me, his eyes vacantly staring into nothing as the stations passed beside us. I envied him, knowing that soon for him the line would end, but that I would simply rise to join the returning train back into the city.
The very last page crumbled into dust in my hands as we reached the Finchley Road, my spiritless companion rising to greet the platform as it ventured into sight. Dust and bracken from the pages that I had been so eagerly, feverishly deciphering coated the hems of his trousers as he left the carriage, and I saw a line of broken paper carpet the floor behind him like breadcrumbs.
The gentleman to my right beckoned to me as the train left the platform, and murmured, "Disgraceful, that."
I enjoined that I was not aware of the disgrace to which he referred, and he replied, "Disgraceful, him having his feet on the seat like that. They used to have signs up."
"Oh, no one pays attention to signs anymore," I answered cheerfully.
"Yeah, that's true," he replied, a sour note entering his voice. It was then that he took note of the mass of crumbling manuscripts on my lap and, a vague politeness still with him, asked me, "What's that, then?"
"Have a look?" I offered him a sheaf of pages. He grunted, and moved to sit opposite me, taking a handful of the yellowing documents in his grasp.
My brow was furrowed. I could scarcely read the words upon the page, never mind admit the truth of them. I marvelled sickly at the vistas that paraded behind my eyes as I perused the final pages, crumbling as my fingers brushed them. The gentleman opposite sat, his feet up on the seat beside me, his eyes vacantly staring into nothing, nothing, nothing at all…
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