As the train gained velocity after midnight he flung open the almost empty compartment door and strolled up and down looking for the best seat. After a quick evaluation he sat down opposite me, on the other side of the alley. That way he was forced to ride backwards, but at least he had multiple good views of me: two reflected in the windows, and one in reality. All he had to do was swing his head back and forth from his window, to my window, to myself after short intermissions.

At first I could not determine if he was trying to understand what was the matter with me (for I looked sad, tired and very worried, or deeply chagrined or annoyed, depending on how one interprets my expressions), if he was nervously trying to decide if he would initiate a conversation or perhaps ask me out, if he kept changing his rehearsed pick-up line or if he was just plainly a disgustingly perverse horny bastard. I realised the latter could be an option after I'd turned to the left to see what all this peeking was about, and I caught him grabbing hold of his trousers right next to his bulged crotch, pulling it upwards possibly to make more room.

It went on for the next 45 minutes. The longer we sat there, the more abrupt his head swings got and the shorter he kept sight of one view, before darting on to the next. His movements increasingly got more nervous or restless. In the corner of my eye I could continuously see one of his hands stroking lightly to and fro over his bulge, sometimes prodding it gently or giving it a grope. I couldn't believe it. Was I imagining it? Were my eyes playing tricks on me? Was I dreaming?

All I remember about his physical appearance is he was quite tall, a little misshapen, he had a very sharp, straight, pointed nose, light blonde, spiked hair and very scary, sky-blue eyes, with a lighter blue ring around his pupils. I estimate his age at about 29 years. This is deducted from the stroll he performed before he sat down, the glance I got when I saw him pulling up his trousers near his crotch, and the deadly look I gave him in disgust when I got up to leave. I wasn't going to encourage him by returning his stares, and I wasn't going to watch his every shameless, revolting move, so I didn't get to see much of him. Luckily.

Only afterwards am I certain that what I saw was what he was doing. I wish I would have been certain at the time I was sitting there being watched: if I wouldn't have thought it a possibility that maybe I was imagining the happening, I would have looked him straight in the eye and fiercely spoken a degrading sentence at him in loathing. The fucking cheek.

I pull up my lip and quiver when I think of what he most likely did when he got home from his journey. Thinking of me. Spilling over everywhere after an endless, teasing foreplay. Repulsive.

Please delete me from his memory.

---

I feel so