The District Line Eastbound, and memories, those silly things
There are small spiders in the bathroom, and June is in a constant cycle of having to replace the shampoo, then the conditioner, then the bodywash. Then it’s the toothpaste, the face wash. Whatever acne cream is cheapest at the moment. Moisturiser for the face. Moisturiser for the body. Makeup. Makeup remover. A new shirt for a dinner next week. Some jeans that fit.
It’s one thing, then it’s the next. Buy something. Take it back. Watch the world go by from train windows, car windows, beyond and outside of that head of yours. She is fleeting, momentary, temporary: reassured by that fact, but concerned that nobody else realises this about her. She’s secondary: a filler character- a single line in a book, a pedestrian in the back of a street scene in a film, a diversion to your great big plot. She is the pair of eyes peeking through the holes in the fence of your childhood home. Slow blinks and pretending.
The District Line eastbound is rammed at Blackfriars. At 5.30, she’s caught the cusp of rush hour, and the tannoy overhead keeps repeating something about a fire at another station, and part-suspensions, and the need to be extra-careful on the stairs because they’ve turned slippery and black from the rain. The first time her train comes, she’s poised to be right at the doors. Like etiquette demands, she steps back and lets passengers off the train first. The windows are muddy with steam, and she can already feel her glasses growing foggy and her skin damp and clammy under already soaking clothes. There’s hardly any room, and she doesn’t want to hurt anyone. A man and woman who were standing behind her step to her left and press in, push people flat, and the doors are already closing before June has even thought to be annoyed that she’ll clearly be missing this one.
She can hear the phantom sound of someone miscalculating their proximity to the door, and their head getting jammed between them as they slide closed.
Nothing happens. The doors close, the train leaves, and June is still standing on the platform.
Fine. It’s ok. The next one is in seven minutes, and she’s not in a rush anyway; she is actually still on track to be early. She can feel the eyes of the people on the opposite side of the platform judging the fact that she’s still standing there, and continues to stand there, bouncing her leg and practising deep breathing as the next one arrives.
Brilliant. Just as packed, just as steamy. If anything, there seem to be even more people on this one and nobody is getting out; when the door opens, she can feel an exhale of hot air, but nothing else moves.
Really, Guys, no chance of moving? The man wearing a shirt and tie standing next to her keeps shouting into the carriage. She silently begs for him to stop. No one says anything, and the door closes, and the train leaves.
Two more trains come and go. To be fair, people did push their way onto those from the platform, and June was right next to the doors every time. She probably could have done it. But she imagined her head getting trapped between the doors, or getting stuck pressed against the glass, or falling on top of someone when she couldn’t find something to grab hold of in time, and her feet physically couldn’t do it. She was rooted to the platform, melting onto the yellow line.
Twenty-five minutes and four trains later, June finally bolsters herself to press into the crowded train headed for Upminster. Six stops to Monument, was it? What station was she supposed to get out at? Something like Monument but not Monument, but definitely six stops. It’s too late now to check her phone- she’s pressed from shoulder to ass cheek against the man behind her.
June was sexually assaulted on a crowded bus in another country a couple of years ago. Portugal, July, 2019. It was packed- just like this. Body to body. It was mostly women around her, no movement, clinging tight to those stupid nooses that hang from the railings above, but don’t aid much in the way of stability with all of their swinging about.
She was right by the door when the bus reached the next stop, and though there was really no moving forward, a man got on behind her anyway, pressed her right up and into the people in front of her, making space where there wasn’t any (as men always seem to do). In her head, June justified it- maybe he was late to a meeting. Maybe he needed to go and see his kid, pick them up from school. She didn’t catch on at first. Thought maybe he was shifting to get comfortable, or to grab on to something to keep steady. In a way, he was, June supposes. It was only when she felt something distinctly hard pressing repeatedly against her ass that she realised what was happening.
It was the dead of summer, and June was wearing a black dress with these strings that tied into bows on your shoulders. She’d never been much of a dress person before, and she was having a hard time liking her arms at the time- specifically the fat where your triceps are supposed to be- so she felt very proud of herself. And pretty too. She was never usually a dress person. It’s strange. She can distinctly remember thinking that it was such a shame because she had been having such a nice day, and she really liked that dress. But as this man behind her kept on moving, the panic started to claw in. This was it. She was about to become the subject of a true crime documentary- the kind that shows up in your YouTube recommendations at 3 in the morning when you’re paranoid and sleep-deprived. She’ll get whisked off this bus and kidnapped and chopped up into tiny pieces and never be seen again. How the hell do you even say please for the love of god, help me in Portuguese? Maybe the bus really was just crowded, and this large man had something in his pocket, and he couldn’t keep his balance? June’s eyes had started to well up. She remembers locking eyes with a woman to her right, one who was also in his vicinity. And they stared at one another, June with tears blurring her vision, the whole way to the next stop.
June immediately pushed out the second the doors opened. She might be misremembering, but she could have sworn she pushed him hard too, an I can’t say fuck you, but fuck you.
And she stepped into the hot sun at a bus stop miles from where she was supposed to end up and took heaving breaths, looking up at the sky and trying to figure out what just happened and compute the fact that she was still here, and it was fine, and it wasn’t like he touched her, anyway. She never wore that dress again.