First Impressions by Josephine Myles Page B

scholarship.
    I imagined his voice, all rich and plummy from years of inbred privilege. He’d have one of those ridiculous names like Algernon or Percival, but you can call him Algie, because he’s just one of the lads, after all. And then he’d bray with laughter, before downing another scotch.
    One day he was sporting a pair of rainbow-striped socks, and I found myself wondering if they went all the way up to the knee like Kathy’s did. Or maybe he had a pair of those old-fashioned sock suspenders holding them up, like they did in really old porn photos. Picturing him in sepia, wearing nothing but a top hat and a pair of socks and suspenders wasn’t the best idea, especially so close to my stop. I had to clutch my bag to my crotch to hide my erection as I got up.
    ***
    When I finally heard his voice, it didn’t match the picture I’d created. A bomb scare delayed the train between stations, the low grumble of muttering commuters nearly drowning out his quiet tones as he rang his employer. It was an educated voice, but an ordinary one, the gentle twang of a regional accent still detectable. I tried to place it. Those clipped vowels put him from somewhere farther north.
    I wanted to know. I needed to know. I fantasized about staying on the train and following him to work. Of going and sitting next to him, our thighs brushing together with the motion of the carriage. Of saying, “Hi,” with a smile. Of reaching out and shaking his hand, rubbing my thumb over the smooth knuckles. Of tearing his clothes off and fucking him face down on the filthy floor, horrified commuters drawing back from the inferno of our lust.
    ***
    Then one sweltering Thursday after a couple of months of watching him, something snapped inside me and I pulled out my sketchpad. He had his jacket folded in his lap, his shirtsleeves rolled up, and I couldn’t resist the lure of that flesh on display. Between Pinner and Finchley Road, I drew like a man possessed, my pencil skating across the paper. I began to fill in the rough outline. His feet were first. I pulled a pink highlighter pen out of my pocket to scribble in the vibrant socks. His face was next. While he frowned down at his page for the best part of ten minutes, almost as if he was posing, I managed to capture a certain likeness. It wasn’t perfect, rather like an uglier twin, but there was a certain something about the line of his lips that satisfied me.
    There wasn’t much time left to finish. Before I could think about what I was doing, my pencil traced the line of his calf up under the trouser leg. The other side followed. I’d sketched enough nudes to make a pretty good approximation as to what he’d be like under those clothes. I figured his knees were probably bony, as he didn’t seem to have much excess flesh. His shoulders and hips I could guess at, the sweeping curve of his collarbone, and that hollow at the base of his neck that must be there under the shirt. The arms were straightforward, and as the sheaf of paper hid his hands, I didn’t need to fuss over them. I was glad that his cross-legged pose hid his groin so I didn’t have to decide just how generous I wanted to be in that area. That only left me with a blank space where his chest should be.
    I could hear the woman next to me tutting as I quickly sketched in nipples and a sprinkling of hair between them. I’m not sure whether I wanted him to be hairy or not, but the space needed filling, needed texture to compensate for the loss of his clothing. Besides which, I could imagine running my fingers through a light pelt of hair. I could picture it sticking to his skin with sweat, the hairs swirling together into dark commas.
    Hearing the squealing protest of the brakes that meant the train was starting to slow for my stop, I quickly signed it with a scrawled “Jez” and added my mobile number before I had a chance to bottle out. I ripped it out of the book, folded it in half and threw it into his lap as I fled from