elderly British gentleman wearing a top hat, a thick, black, wool winter coat, with a white, silk scarf wrapped around his neck, approaches me.
“Please, excuse me.” He tips his hat. “I normally don’t eavesdrop…”
“Oh … no … it’s just that I’m from America and we don’t have anything like this.”
“Nobody does. It is the first underground railway system in the world and the original western terminus of the Metropolitan Railway.”
“Really…”
“The roof that you’ve been admiring is six hundred and ninety-nine feet long and the gigantic arches supporting it span sixty-eight feet.”
He looks up at it and I can feel his pride. Can’t blame him; it’s definitely an incredible feat. He tips his hat and is off to catch a train.
Finally, my train comes. It is midday and the train ride will take about two hours or so to reach Bath.
As soon as we are rolling, I leave my valise on my seat and make my way to the dining car. I had rushed out of the hotel too late to grab a bite.
The dining facilities are pleasant; tables have linen tablecloths, china, polished silverware, and there’s even a vase in the center of each table holding a pink carnation.
At the end of the train car is a table for one—perfect for me.
As I make my way toward my table I notice a young gentleman looking down at a newspaper on the table across from the one I am heading for. He sports a mustache that isn’t overpowering and light brown hair. I would venture to guess he is in his midtwenties, close to my age.
Something about him is vaguely familiar to me, but I can’t place it.
He lifts his head and I inadvertently meet his eyes and get a jolt— his eyes are blue.
His countenance is rather grave and stoic but his striking blue eyes almost cause me to miss a step.
I focus straight ahead and take my seat. Quickly grabbing a menu, I pretend to be absorbed by the sparse offerings while thoughts whip through my brain.
The man with his head buried in a newspaper was in the hotel lobby last night. I couldn’t be certain it is the same man, I didn’t see his face at the hotel, but the general form of his body …
I am dying to take another peek at him and force myself to pretend to just be casually looking around as I turn— damnit I meet his eye again.
Embarrassed at being caught, I do what comes natural to me. I attack.
“You were in the hotel lobby last night.”
He smiles and shakes his head. “ Ich bin, Fraulein, traurig, aber ich spreche nicht Englisch. ” He smiles. “No Ang-lish.”
Oh, lord, how embarrassing. I don’t speak German but caught the fact he doesn’t speak English. Now I am even more embarrassed.
“Sorry.” I turn away from him and try to bury my head in the small menu. I’m mortified. He must think that I’m some sort of hussy, approaching him in public. Oh no, did he understand the word “hotel”? Could I have left him with the impression that I—I—
I turn back around to try and get across to him what I meant by speaking about a hotel but he rises and leaves and I close my trap rather than sticking my foot in it again.
How asinine of me. Even if he had been the man I saw at the hotel last night, bumping into him on the train the next morning would be perfectly natural.
I order tea and a roast beef sandwich and sit back with a sigh, a little weary, a little lonely. He had been a reasonably attractive man and appeared intelligent. It would have been nice to wile away the time it took to get to Bath just talking to him about everyday things that didn’t include murder and suicide.
However, there had been no romantic interest in his look, not that there should be, but I find it strange and get the feeling in that brief encounter that he was analyzing me, more like a scientist observing something of professional interest rather than as a man looking at a woman he might find attractive. Not a cool dispassionate look, but a probing one.
Maybe he’s a scientist. The
“Please, excuse me.” He tips his hat. “I normally don’t eavesdrop…”
“Oh … no … it’s just that I’m from America and we don’t have anything like this.”
“Nobody does. It is the first underground railway system in the world and the original western terminus of the Metropolitan Railway.”
“Really…”
“The roof that you’ve been admiring is six hundred and ninety-nine feet long and the gigantic arches supporting it span sixty-eight feet.”
He looks up at it and I can feel his pride. Can’t blame him; it’s definitely an incredible feat. He tips his hat and is off to catch a train.
Finally, my train comes. It is midday and the train ride will take about two hours or so to reach Bath.
As soon as we are rolling, I leave my valise on my seat and make my way to the dining car. I had rushed out of the hotel too late to grab a bite.
The dining facilities are pleasant; tables have linen tablecloths, china, polished silverware, and there’s even a vase in the center of each table holding a pink carnation.
At the end of the train car is a table for one—perfect for me.
As I make my way toward my table I notice a young gentleman looking down at a newspaper on the table across from the one I am heading for. He sports a mustache that isn’t overpowering and light brown hair. I would venture to guess he is in his midtwenties, close to my age.
Something about him is vaguely familiar to me, but I can’t place it.
He lifts his head and I inadvertently meet his eyes and get a jolt— his eyes are blue.
His countenance is rather grave and stoic but his striking blue eyes almost cause me to miss a step.
I focus straight ahead and take my seat. Quickly grabbing a menu, I pretend to be absorbed by the sparse offerings while thoughts whip through my brain.
The man with his head buried in a newspaper was in the hotel lobby last night. I couldn’t be certain it is the same man, I didn’t see his face at the hotel, but the general form of his body …
I am dying to take another peek at him and force myself to pretend to just be casually looking around as I turn— damnit I meet his eye again.
Embarrassed at being caught, I do what comes natural to me. I attack.
“You were in the hotel lobby last night.”
He smiles and shakes his head. “ Ich bin, Fraulein, traurig, aber ich spreche nicht Englisch. ” He smiles. “No Ang-lish.”
Oh, lord, how embarrassing. I don’t speak German but caught the fact he doesn’t speak English. Now I am even more embarrassed.
“Sorry.” I turn away from him and try to bury my head in the small menu. I’m mortified. He must think that I’m some sort of hussy, approaching him in public. Oh no, did he understand the word “hotel”? Could I have left him with the impression that I—I—
I turn back around to try and get across to him what I meant by speaking about a hotel but he rises and leaves and I close my trap rather than sticking my foot in it again.
How asinine of me. Even if he had been the man I saw at the hotel last night, bumping into him on the train the next morning would be perfectly natural.
I order tea and a roast beef sandwich and sit back with a sigh, a little weary, a little lonely. He had been a reasonably attractive man and appeared intelligent. It would have been nice to wile away the time it took to get to Bath just talking to him about everyday things that didn’t include murder and suicide.
However, there had been no romantic interest in his look, not that there should be, but I find it strange and get the feeling in that brief encounter that he was analyzing me, more like a scientist observing something of professional interest rather than as a man looking at a woman he might find attractive. Not a cool dispassionate look, but a probing one.
Maybe he’s a scientist. The
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