Make no mistake, I know you saw me. Other people saw you, but their commiseration while welcome was of little comfort.
You looked me right in the eye before swiftly descending onto that seat cushion; the bedraggled bun atop your head swaying dangerously side to side in your haste. I made the mistake of politely letting people pass me to get off the train. How rookie of me.
I had been standing for seven stations and I had another eight or so to go. I concede there was no way you could have known that. Really, I do. What irks me is that you saw me patiently waiting. I was less than two feet from the space. You came in the doors, followed the procession of people getting off the train and sat yourself down while I watched in dismay.
Staring ahead and avoiding my disbelieving stare fooled no one. It made your crime more conspicuous if anything. Yellow-bellied criminal. If you are going to have the audacity to steal buttock real estate in the clear yet grainy artificial light of the Piccadilly underground, at least have the courage to acknowledge your success. Perhaps even flaunt it. Rookie.
I don’t have such misgivings; I took a picture of you.
Letter Not Sent 