Strangers on a Train

An Ode to Lovage, Osho, and free love, baby!!!

“I’m a goddess… I’m a virgin… I’m a blue movie… I’m a bitch… I’m a geisha… I’m a little girl…”

She sips an ice cold martini and orders another.  Her legs are crossed, and she is wearing fishnet stockings.  They are of the highest quality, purchased at Barney’s in New York.  They are slutty and sophistique at the same time.  It depends on who’s wearing them.  She pulls it off.

He is sitting across the aisle reading a book.  He’s wearing small glasses and a loosened tie.  His hair is dying to be ruffled, he just doesn’t know it. 

She wants to sit on his lap.  She wants to take the book out of his hands and the glasses off his head.  She bites her lip.

The train rushes around a corner, and the sound is deafening.  Then it enters a tunnel, and everything goes black.  Moments later it emerges into sunlight, trees whipping by, the whistle screaming to announce a coming stop.

The passengers empty.  She and he remain.  He looks up from his book, and offers her a half smile before looking down again.  She watches him and waits.  He clears his throat and rearranges the book in his lap.  He takes a deep breath and loosens his tie a bit further.  He taps his foot and looks up. 

She knew it.  As soon as they see her, really see her, they can’t look away.  Men are so weak. 

He clears his throat again, offers her another smile, and tries to return to his reading.  He can’t do it.  Minutes later he puts down his book and offers a pointed look at her martini.

“That looks refreshing,” he says with a nervous laugh.  His eyes are green behind his glasses.  He is devilishly good-looking, he just doesn’t know it.  She stands up and comes over.  “Mind if I join you?” she asks.  He tries not to look at her legs as he nods.  “Uh, please, of course,” he stammers.

She sits down and stares at him.  He is very flustered, but trying not to show it.  He taps his book, and says, “This is a great read.”  She nods and smiles, silent.  “It’s about some scientists who breed these killer bees while trying to come up with new forms of nanotechnology,” he explains, fumbling.  She nods again and smiles.  She takes a sip of her martini and re-crosses her legs.  He drums his fingers on the book.  “What’s your name?” he suddenly bursts out, as if he’s struck on the most brilliant conversation piece in the world.

“Mona,” she says, looking him up and down.  He’s cute in his pin-striped suit.  She wants to take it off. 

“Mona,” he repeats to himself.  “Mona…”

The train lurches around a corner and flies into another dark tunnel.  This one is longer.  When they come out, her hand is on his thigh and he is blushing furiously.  She slides her hand off and returns to her seat.  A drop of her martini has spilled on the exposed skin of her thigh.  “Paul,” she begins, using the name he just whispered in her ear.  “Paul, will you lick this off of me?”

Paul darts a quick look around the empty carriage and then bends down, pressing his lips to her skin.  She props her leg up on one toe so that he has easier access, and he sucks the gin off quickly, immediately sitting up straight.

She looks at him, disappointed.  She deliberately spills another few drops on her leg.  She looks at him pointedly.  “Paul,” she says.  “I spilled again.  Will you please lick this off my thigh?”  He gulps and looks around, although the carriage has been empty for some time.  He licks his lips.  “Yes, Mona,” he says.

The train rushes into another tunnel, and when they emerge, they are both breathless.  Paul pushes himself off of his knees and returns to his seat, and Mona smiles in satisfaction.  “Good boy,” she murmurs.

Two hours later, the train reaches its last stop.  Paul and Mona both missed their stations hours ago.  They stumble out of the bathroom, and she reaches down to zip up the side of her skirt.  Her lipstick is smudged outside the line of her lips, but it looks good.  It looks even better on Paul. 

His glasses have come off, his hair is rumpled, and his suit is back on, but questionably.  His tie has gone missing, though it will show up in her purse hours later.  She hooks her finger under his collar and leads him back to the carriage.  He follows after her like a young puppy, reaching out to put his hands on her waist.  She swats him away, and orders him into his seat.  She bends down and pulls her stockings up gently, making sure not to tear them.  Then she shakes out her hair and smiles. 

“It was delightful meeting you, Paul,” she says, as he stares back at her with longing green eyes.  “Quite pleasurable, really.”  He starts to stand up, but she pushes him down.  The carriage is still empty, and outside, the conductor has begun blowing his whistle.  It’s time for everyone to get out.  In her stiletto heels, she stands in front of him, one leg on either side of his own, and then puts both hands on his shoulders and sinks down onto his lap.  She kisses him one last time, with a cunning ferocity that leaves him breathless.  His fingers are interlocked behind her back, and as he drops his head back against the seat, he moans as he feels her hair tickling his neck.  “You’re a bad, bad boy, Paul,” Mona tells him, standing up suddenly before he can pull her back into his lap.  In a flash, the sound of her high heels clicking down the stairs float back to Paul as he scrambles to stand up and follow her out.  He’s in love, he just doesn’t know it.

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Peter Dickinson profile image

Peter Dickinson 7 years ago from South East Asia

Wonderful Sarah! Thank you. Strangely reminiscent of a train journey I took when I was 19, only I was reading a newspaper and we never exchanged names. Thanks for the memories.

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