All the Rage by A. L Kennedy Page A

should. Their case was taking her weight.
    It has a hard shell.
    Inside it, their belongings didn’t mix – his shirts and underpants in a tangle, Pauline’s laundry compressed into subsidiary containments. They had separate sponge bags, too.
    Got to keep those toothbrushes apart.
    There was no café for him to visit and find her placating treats. The whole trail of those evicted from the previous, ailing train had been ushered along barren walkways, down steps and far from the station proper, which had been mean and small enough in itself. Not even a vending machine. No apparent staff. Mark couldn’t imagine where the twenty-minute man could be keeping himself before he emerged to murmur about fake arrivals and departures.
    Mark drifted until he was standing in one of the broad alleys that led back to the crowds, the platform, the wait. He was quite a distance from Pauline and safely unobservable.
    Probably.
    He glanced through to the phoning and pacing of his fellow castaways. The bustle was thin at this point.
    But you’re there, aren’t you? By yourself. That’s you.
    He’d noticed the woman earlier, taken note.
    And I’m looking at you.
    She was in her late forties and her spine had settled into something of a slump, but she had an optimistic wardrobe. There were flowers, lots of flowers: a light skirt, thin blouse, mildly bohemian, hoping to conceal that she was fatter than she’d like. Mark knew it would be a safe bet that she’d have a messy flat and would sneak bits of food in the kitchen before she came out to eat properly with a guest. Flat shoes, but good calves. Goodish curves. Accustomed to being unappreciated.
    But you have my undivided attention.
    And if he thought it louder.
    You have my undivided attention.
    Sure enough, she turned, tugged by his awareness, and he did what he wasn’t allowed to do – no longer wanted to do, if he was truthful – and faced the woman and was nothing for her.
    That’s you. By yourself. And this is me. By myself. And I’m nothing.
    I am very much nothing: not serious, not long-term, neither heartfelt, nor heart-breaking, not intrusive, not a burden, not anyone who’ll ever know you and therefore be irritated or repelled.
    I will be good and easy and meaningless.
    Mark smiled.
    I’m nothing.
    He considered himself.
    And I have a nice arse.
    I have an excellent arse. Frequently complimented.
    Early forties – forty-four is early forties – but thirty-nine to look at and with more-than-satisfactory legs. They give me the height, the perspective. One could say they lead the eye. Up. And I’m keeping my hair well, dark and thick.
    Plus, I have kind eyes.
    And no glasses, which means that I’m currently loosening her edges, Vaselining over my appreciation of someone who would benefit from blurring.
    Late forties for a woman is catastrophic. She has my sympathy.
    And this me, this nothing – she could have that, too.
    He ambled forward to lean in the last shade of the passage, on the blind side from his wife.
    You could have it all and it’s a lot, it’s really something.
    He smiled again, folded his arms.
    My arms around myself, because you have not held me and yet I do need to be held. It’s such a shame for both of us.
    And the woman smiled.
    That’s right. You’re made for nothing, you are – made for it.
    She kept him in view when he moved and then as he halted.
    And he knew absolutely that he should be business-like here, should claim her, because she would love it. Because how unlikely and beautiful it would be for anyone – but perhaps particularly for her – that a stranger should be jerked to a stop by who you are and then swiftly driven to helpless and expert improprieties.
    Every one of the possible acts was prohibited, but he did rush harmlessly through thoughts of how thin the woman’s bra and blouse were and how they would give her away once