Conversation

He's almost shouting down the phone. He's been insulted, he cries. The stupid little bitch, he'll let her know who's who. He would have told her there and then. He felt like knocking her block off. His words are almost incoherent, but perhaps it's because I don't understand the patois very well. I try to concentrate on my book, and wish I'd brought my mp3 player. Over the aisle from him, a young woman has buds in her ears, stares out the window. He twists in his seat, gesticulating at the phone. Finally, with a last imprecation, he rings off, and slumps back in his seat. After a moment, he looks over at the young woman, and notices that she is quite pretty. He preens a little, and leans over towards her, says something. She turns from the window and replies, monosyllabic. Then she stiffly gazes out of the window again. He glares at her, huddles in his seat, and pulls out his telephone, staring at the screen. At the next station, they both leave the train.