Escalator

Descending the escalator into the Hades-like cavern of the tube, she saw the approaching faces of those on the opposite side going in the other direction. Weary commuter faces-wrinkled eyes, drooped shoulders. Some had decided to trek up the long moving stairs, others stood, zombie-like.

Friday. Home.Large glass of red-wine. Solace. Peace instead of the forced sweaty intimacy of strangers. She stood staring into the eyes of these people. She felt invisible in this place. Self-conscious. Her dark hair belied the traditional notions of beauty. Her wide hips rebelled in spite of the rigorous army-esq training to which she subjected them. Her waist seemed to belong to another body.

She wondered if her lipstick was too pink, if people looked at her and knew instinctively that she had straightened her hair. On each side of the escalator were posters advertising theatre and beauty products promising fuller lips or younger-looking-skin.

Teens approached on their upward journey, gelled hair covering eyes, short skirts, long legs, thin hips. Loud chatter. The investment banker, the older man in the suit, the arty type; they all hovered past.

Suddenly someone like her-thick hips, hair in a pony-tail, dark circles, Primark duffel, No loud laughter, gelled fringes or short skirt.

This escalator journey was like a moment offered by the city to be carried allowing your thoughts to drift elsewhere. Finally she reached the bottom. She stepped off and disappeared into the masses.