Her eyes maintain their focused intensity as we stand on the crowded platform, her back to me as she stares at the screen displaying train times: 'Morden 2mins' it reads. I wonder what she finds so fascinating. She is a woman posessed. She turns to me then, her bloodshot eyes puffy, cheeks flushed from a combination of emotional exertion and the heat emanating from the sweating passengers.
"How could he?" she asks rhetorically.
I shrug my shoulders and cast my eyes downwards to stare at the grey floor.
"Why would he need to?" her voice trails off, "wasn't I enough?"
I examine her shiny, voluminous hair, full lips and pert breasts. Of course she was enough. "You're the best looking girl he'll ever have."
"But who cares about looks..."
"Okay, you're the best looking, kindest, most fun person he'll ever have."
She processes this information for a moment before leaning over to me, flinging her thin arms around my neck, holding me in an embrace and whispering, "I sometimes wish you were a man."
Her body is racked with tears once more, and I hold her in my arms until three trains have gone past and her sobbing finally subsides.
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