a flicker of recognition

an unforgettable random moment on a tube platform 

Fantasising about seeing you again used to be one of my favourite past times.

I liked to imagine I had transformed myself completely: I would be confident; laughing at something someone had said. In the (extremely) flattering light, my eyes would be twinkling; my shiny (and devoid of frizz) hair would be falling in waves down my back. I would be at least 10 kilos lighter. You would spot me across the room and our eyes would meet, and your expression would exclaim: how could I let her go?

Depending on my level of self-esteem, the fantasy would then involve you pursuing me over a period of time until I felt you had paid sufficient dues, and proven the extent of your emotional growth, (in hindsight, it is clear to me that this scenario would have necessitated a complete personality transplant on your part); or I would deliver a drop-dead line that would render you crushed and speechless before I walked away.

Forever.

To a Nancy Sinatra soundtrack.

In reality, I saw you again almost 11 years to the day of our first meeting. You were standing on a tube platform, talking to a friend.

It was a shock to see you after all this time; the first since the mediation to finalise our divorce, the third since the night you left. You hadn’t changed at all; still boisterous and cavalier, oblivious to the wave of commuters moving down the platform who had to walk around you and your friend and your bags. You take up so much space.

I held my breath as I passed you: the man who once knew all my secrets. I thought I detected a flicker of recognition in your eyes, but I could tell that you were finding it hard to place me.

I wasn’t surprised; the woman who was once married to you is unrecognisable to me too.

I found myself smiling as I reached the far end and stood to face the mice scampering amongst the empty Westbound train lines.