London encounters (1)

I see the instrument case first. Musician, I think. Violin or viola.

Casually dressed in all black. Heavy laden with case and backpack (travelling?) The slim and sprightly young man takes his place in the crowded carriage, carefully standing as one does when riding the tube with too much baggage. Balancing his instrument, his backpack, his light frame.

The woman next to me exits the train at the next stop. I wonder if the man will attempt the complicated feat of sitting down.

He does. Maneuvering toward me, he takes the empty seat--adjusting his backpack and placing the instrument between his knees. Seated and safe, the musician no longer interests me. I return to reading.

"This is Finsbury Park..."

Our arrival at the next station stirs me from my reading reverie. When I look up, I see the young man's fingers lightly holding his instrument in place. Keeping it safe from Underground's potential dangers. As his elegant fingertips brush the case's black exterior, I recognize the tender yet protective touch: the subtle contact between musician and instrument.

Suddenly, I am keenly aware of my elbow next to his. So accustomed to the passing touch of a fellow tube rider, I had yet to notice our proximity. The contact is electrifying.

I wish for bared arms. Elbow to elbow. Skin to skin. Human to human.

How marvelous to be connected with another life, even for a passing moment.

When the man alights at King's Cross St. Pancras (Yes, he must be travelling), his presence lingers in the empty seat.

Another passenger sits down.

~L