As I caught the train to work the other morning, a couple sat opposite me. She was English in the way that some people hold onto their Englishness even if they were never born there. She looked dry like if you touched her, she'd give off puffs of dust and face and powder and spoken in measured way like her words were controlled by war rationing. He looked younger than her but maybe wasn't, just better aged.

Her hand glide slowly over to him, resting on his thigh, within in millimetres of his. She stared out the window, at nothing in particular, as though the hand didn't belong to her. He stared ahead, his mouth set into a hard line. He didn't acknowledge her. He didn't take her hand in his. He didn't brush it away.

I could feel the weight of the hand between them. She stared outside; he stared ahead. Slowly, she removed her hand.