U5

There’s a woman who often rides my train, a young woman of about 25, who must get on a couple stops before me since she’s always comfortably ensconced in a seat by the time the train is at my stop. She’s an unremarkable person, plain and a bit plump. Mousy brown, like most of us; her hair hangs thinly to the length of her chin. Not to insult her – for all I know she’s the second queen of Persia, or the president of the Frankfurt chapter of Mensa. It could be, but for the most part she’s someone you wouldn’t look at twice, or I wouldn’t, except she is often reading a book. It’s usually a beat-up book with two wind-blown figures on the cover, a man and woman, clearly what in America would be a ‘Harlequin Romance.’ But no matter. What I notice is how her expression changes when she’s reading. Her eyebrows rise and arch expectantly. Or her jaw slackens and her dull eyes start to gleam. Her lips inevitably flicker into a smile that she seems to forget is there, since she continues to smile it stupidly for long stretches of our trip. Frankly, as unkind as it sounds, she looks so idiotic at these times that I’m embarrassed for her. Frankly, I have to admit that at many points in my own recent reading of Jane Eyre that I fear I have become this person, and have resolved to restrict further reading to my room.