Jim closed his book and stared out of the window, conscious of avoiding the person opposite. As the familiar landscape slipped by, something was troubling him. He lowered his head and closed his eyes to concentrate. All the while he was aware that the woman was staring at him.

In the twelve months since his wife was snatched from him by the cruel illness, Jim had not looked at another woman. The circumstances in which he was now immersed were unique, and random. He closed his eyes tighter to summon her image at the breakfast table but it refused to materialise. All he could see was the image from a few minutes ago, still embedded in the cells of his retina. Where was she? He asked himself. Nevertheless, with her absence came not the usual anxiety,  but a warmth; a kind of comforting feeling of lying in a cosy bed on the soft duvet.

He looked up and stared at the woman. She returned his look and he detected a tiny nod of her head, as if somehow,  perversely,  she had read his thoughts. Jim shook his head and opened the book. 

Suddenly, his right ear began to itch. He scratched it, taking the opportunity to glance up briefly. She took her right earlobe between thumb and forefinger and rubbed.

Jim had hardly managed to string a sentence together on the page before the bridge of his nose prickled. He moved his glasses and stroked the spot with his middle finger. The young woman pinched the place between her eyes, as if intending to sneeze.

A few paragraphs later, Jim was immersed in the world of Dr Jekyll, when something seemed to crawl across the back of his neck. He quickly put his hand to his collar and had a good rummage. To his surprise, she leaned forward as if to flick a fly from the back of her head. The train glided through the familiar countryside. Jim felt a light needle prick in the back of his hand. The sensation lingered, and he attempted to alleviate it by rubbing it with the spine of his book. He caught the young woman scratching the exact same spot on her own hand.

Presently, the train announcement indicated his stop, and Jim put the book away. He got up and made for the door. Pressing the button, he exited the train onto the empty platform, regretting the fact that he hadn’t indulged in one last glimpse of his morning companion. Just then, there was a tap on his shoulder.

“Excuse me.” Jim turned around to see the woman standing before him. “You felt the spirits, didn’t you?” In such close proximity, her face was a sight to behold. He pictured Christmas morning and the rising sun over the Pyramids, but he didn’t come anywhere near achieving a comparison. He was stunned.

“Pardon? Felt what?” He stammered, his heart pounding in his ears.

“The spirits. You felt them. I saw you!” As the departing train echoed into the tunnel, she gave a tiny nod, like the one on the train, seeking acknowledgement, her eyes opening wide.

The young woman put out her hand in greeting. Jim looked down at the small, delicate offering, studying the contrast between the smooth, bronzed back and pale, puffy palm. Her thumb faced upwards, the oval nail manicured to perfection and enhanced by a simple, clear varnish. The white lunula peeped from behind the cuticle like its lunar namesake; he was enchanted.

Nodding again, she gave her hand a tiny shake, which jolted him out of his trance. Flustered, he took the hand in his, careful not to crush it, as if he were holding a small bird. The soft, pillowy palm was all it promised to be as a tingle ran up his arm.

“Hello. It’s nice to meet you. My name is Margarita.” The accompanying smile kicked down the door of his untidy room of a mind. Her accent was Iberian, but he wasn’t sure which country. It was smoother than the clipped tongue of Spain or Portugal.

“Oh, like the cocktail?” Someone said, he looked around the empty station before realising that the words originated from his own mouth. Her smile broadened, revealing the dimple and its shy partner on her other cheek.

““I’m sorry, that was crass of me. Jim’s the name. It’s a pleasure to meet you, too.” His head was clearing as her look continued to do the chores in his midden of a brain. “Tell me about the spirits.”

Travellers began to trickle into the station, and the far-off rumble signalled the next train. Marguerita took the initiative over her paralysed companion. She stretched out her other arm in the direction of the exit.

“Are you in a hurry? May we grab a coffee? I’ll explain it all to you then. What do you think?” Her soft, subtle approach in the form of three questions galvanised Jim, and he turned and led the way. He ushered her onto the escalator, and they tucked into the right. It was then that he noticed her clothes. He had been so obsessed with her face that she could have been naked for all he knew. That thought made him shudder with guilt and shame.

She sported a cream down jacket of an unrecognisable brand and faded Wrangler jeans. On her feet were a pair of Mizuno Waveriders in red and white, not brand new but not shabby. Her blouse was white cotton and bore a simple design of colourfully embroidered characters that seemed to be working in the fields of a faraway place.