Touch

"He wrote a poem on my arm," she says, smiling, then stretches her inked arm to my face for me to inspect.
I squint, trying to decipher the smudged script, "was this before or after he raped you?"
"After, i think. And, he did not -"
"You were practically unconscious."
Sitting on the northern line on our way home with dark circles under our eyes and the thick stench of cigarette smoke embedded in our clothes, the early morning commuters would have looked upon us in distaste had their noses not been buried in free newspapers. She had neatened her eye make-up before we left his house, so although we'd only managed to snatch a few hours sleep, her eyes manage to shine in the harsh strip-lighting of the underground. Stale taste in my mouth, throat dry and eyelids heavy, I squeeze them shut and scratch my head, in a vain attempt to liven up before my Politics class. She grabs my hand as our carriage pulls into Angel station, and my mind imagines the pair of them in his dirty sheets. Perspiring skin, his lips on hers, her silk-smooth palms touching him. I release her palm from mine, imagining the feel of his skin in it rather than mine. Her dress blows up in the familiar yet unexpected gust of air from the opposite platform, she shrieks, face creases into that beautiful smile. And I laugh along, forgetting his possessive hands and masculine strength as we board the escalator together, her bright eyes studying me as intently as mine watch her.