Mind The Gap

Summary: For those who have been into the London Tube, you know you can see all kinds of people, the Brits, Hindi, Afro-European, Asian, Latin, and even your dream guy, or should I say dream bloke? (Challenge)

It was the fifth day of our trip around London, we were just coming from an early visit to the London Tower –which I couldn’t visit from the inside, because my sister found the thirteen something pounds expensive for a simple sighting-, the Tower Bridge –which we crossed to the other side, because it was free of any charge-, and off to the other side of the Thames river. We were a tad lost, but it didn’t seem to matter at the moment, we were in London! And the city is magical; well, at least it feels like it, for foreigners from far lands, like us.

It was such a contrast from our native city, London with its old buildings, its dark rooftops, the antique doors, the smoky air –which, mind you, must’ve turned our lungs into black sponges-, the cute cabs, some of which had these really funny ads painted on their doors; the two levels red buses, driving on the wrong side of the streets! Even if the authorities had these sings painted on the asphalt so you look to the right or to the left as needed, to avoid having tourists being ran over, and all –my sister took several pictures of asphalt saying Look Right, Look Left-. So much organization, really.

The sky was grey that day, and it was turning slightly colder as time ticked by. The Tower Bridge was covered in rain dew, and even if it made it look somewhat even more magical, it also made it slippery as hell. I’m not exactly the definition of a clumsy person, but I am known for having bad luck; so during the entire journey to the other side I was stepping on the concrete as though I was walking on the moon, with large and exaggerated steps. I snapped a picture of the Tower Bridge plaque, around mid way. My sister was kind of embarrassed when she saw me, shifting her eyes to see if anyone was pointing at the stupid girly who was so excited as to take pictures of plaques –so what? I snapped pictures of the Diana’s memorial plaques on the floor, too, in the Hyde Park, and she took pictures of asphalt-; our friend was pretty much ignoring us, looking around in a daze of awe mixed with something else, I quite couldn’t read her face from where I was, being behind her and with many numbers in short sight, you know. One thing I was sure, though, Tahiti –where she was born- was very different, and we joked about it.

We reached the end of the bridge with no harm done, although my right knee was a bit sore from overacting, and because a few days ago I had twisted it in the most absurd way, turning on a corner –maybe I am clumsy, after all-. I wanted to go to a café to have some fresh British tea, but my sister denied my request because… it would be too expensive (Do you know how many Euros a Pound is? And if you change that to our currency, you’d get the most expensive tea in the world. Never mind that London is actually quite the pricy city).

The three of us walked aimlessly for a while, I feeling rather thirsty, but who was I to complain, after being verbally smacked down by my money-saving sister. We stopped at a corner, a Porsche parked next to us. Out of it seemed to come Paul McCartney with a blonde, mature woman. The three of us were shocked, but on closer inspection we noted that it was a very rich Paul McCartney look alike. A block from there we saw an old lady that was so similar to the Queen we couldn’t help but salute her. Maybe our humour wasn’t up to her standard; she didn’t even twitch her lip. Not too far from there, and after many mansions left behind, some random guy informed us about a restaurant nearby. My sister didn’t want to go, but a cup of hot chocolate for sixty nine pence really got her going.

We ended up ordering four plates of food for the three of us, because we basically had survived in London based on the breakfast they gave us in the morning at the Kensal Green hostel –it came with the room package- and sandwiches we prepared in our room at night, cookies bought at the market and many, many chips. I asked for iced tea, my accent wasn’t the best British, so I guess that was why the lady didn’t understand; after repeating myself for a good while –she understood when I said “Cold tea”- she said that no, they didn’t have any. I went for the usual Cokes then, wondering if it was because December wasn’t Iced Tea season.

The London Dungeon sounded like fun, at least to me. My sister and our friend didn’t agree, so very reluctantly I had to follow them to some random mall that was basically deserted where I tried to buy a scarf and had my sister pull me away by grabbing the hood of my woollen sweater, almost choking me in the process –sheesh!-. The rain was padding softly on our umbrellas as we walked to the nearest Tube station. We pulled our Oyster cards out. My sister decided to buy them, because for a week a twenty two pounds Oyster card was way cheaper than buying one or two-ways tickets every time we used the tube. By the time we managed to place our asses on the tube seats my knee was throbbing, but you know, it was the London tube, riding it was really cool, so I wasn’t gonna complain that time –because I had complained throughout the whole journey because of it. I even made us change room at the hostel, so not to climb three stories of stairs. It killed me!-.

The London Underground system is very… intricate. Okay, it’s a bitch. Understanding it, that is. But they’re kind enough to put maps all around, so it’s all good. And if you have international people with you –like my sister and our Tahitian friend-, who have ridden other city’s metros, then it’s all good. You just let yourself go with the flow. And so I waited the female voice to announce the stops, just for the hell of it, and got off walking like I had a wooden leg, to climb a labyrinth of stairs to get to the connection tube. People didn’t have much poise when they saw me clutch my sister’s arm so not to slip on the stairs and finish up fucking my knee, they stared and pointed and some went as far as to make fun of me; maybe they thought I couldn’t understand them. Oh, I could. I just didn’t want to get in jail for putting a dent on a pretty Brit-boy’s face, else how would I have gone back to momma country? Nay, nay. Most people minded their own though; but still, jerk-faces are everywhere. Very funky, no?

After many turns, ups and downs, my sister and our friend pulling me from my hood towards the right direction –well, what can I say. This old man musician distracted me into getting the wrong door-, we finally found ourselves in Piccadilly Circus Station. That station is the bomb, in my modest opinion. There’s this booming voice that goes all Mind The Gap, in a robotic way. I guess it was a good idea to implement its use, who knows how many people were clumsy like me and stepped on the Gap, and who knows how many of those lived to tell the story; it’s kind of scary though, the first time I heard it I was getting off the tube and nearly managed to avoid the Gap because the voice startled the fuck out of me. I wasn’t expecting it! But since I was preparing myself for the international trip my dad told me “If you’re riding on a metro, stay away from the gap, there are evil people out there who like to push other unsuspecting people towards it when the metro comes and…” I stopped listening there, but his message got across. I stood away from the Gap. I even waited with my back against the wall.

As the tube took off I heard it, the booming voice. I grinned at my sister and our friend, because that voice really lifted my spirits, in an odd way. I even bought a Mind The Gap tee for my father, just so I can laugh at him –at it, I mean, ahem- when I see him, and a Mind The Gap key chain, so I can laugh myself silly when I look at it; I got my mum a London tee, and my sister didn’t buy anything so far, because it was all too expensive-. We were holding on to the tube handles, because it was packed and since we’re young no one was gonna give us a seat –damn, at that moment I wished I was in my golden years; my knee felt like it was, anyway-. My hair was a mess by the pulling up and down of my sweater’s hood; the weather had my skin cold and dry; my face, I could see from my reflection on the window, was like a big red tomato, and it made me laugh. I looked like I just came from bed, and my sister and our friend weren’t looking any better. I pointed at their faces and laughed like a hyena. I was in a good mood.

And so I was joking with our friend, she was chuckling at my lame attempt at making a male robotic voice. “Mind The Gap!” I turned to my sister. “This is a Bakerloo Line train to Elephant and Castle.” That got her laughing, because I could do it just like the woman that said it. An Afro-European woman –as I called them- looked at me funny, she then smiled and I grinned at her.

“It’s amazing,” Our friend stated in Spanish with her French accent, giggling to the colourful gloves I lent her. “You do it just like the woman.” Told ya. “Maybe they hired you to say that and you didn’t tell us.”

I nodded, in all seriousness. “Yep, even if this is my first time in London.” I chuckled. Some people stood up and got ready to get off, the next station was approaching. Quick like a lighting I leant back on the seat that was behind me –that was then, empty- and plopped my ass on it, proceeding to rub my aching knee, and cursing it for being such a drag –one that has to last for the rest of my life-. The tube stopped and people rushed out and in, all well behaved. That’s the British for you, civilized and ordered like no other, we should learn from them. I then looked up to my sister and our friend, a seat was free next to mine.

“Not gonna sit?” I asked them in Spanish.

“Nah, I wanna stay up.” I didn’t understand why my sister didn’t want to sit, we walked all day long. But then again, it’s my sister, we share the same genes, and we’re both… annoying like that, I guess. Our friend didn’t hear me; I stared at her for a couple of seconds.

“Oh?” She asked, and I grinned. She had been humming lowly a song that I knew; it was a bad one, and she got it stuck because I was singing it during all the previous day.

“Not gonna sit?” A woman walked by and took the seat; I blinked without looking at her, but at our friend’s sardonic smile. “Okay, never mind.” I had to fold my leg in while people passed, because I didn’t want it to get smashed into splinters, and I took the moment in where the tube started moving to unfold it and stretch it, then I looked up, a bit to the left of our friend, who was in front of me.

And that’s where I saw him. He got in among the last people, so he found no empty seats. His left hand was stuffed in the pocket of his jeans, and his right thumb brushed his lower lip; he was looking down, and when the tube took off he just leant against it and used its own force to hold himself up.

I whistled in my mind, then I tugged on my sister’s coat sleeve and called our friend’s name. “He’s cute.” I stated in Spanish. They both, very obviously, turned around towards him.

“Which one?” My sister asked.

“Oh, him.” That was our friend. She waved a hand and wrinkled her nose. It made her Chinese face look really funny, so I coughed up an odd laugh. When going to Chinese restaurants the waiters and waitresses start speaking in Chinese to her, thinking finally, someone who understands them! When in truth she’s born in Tahiti, raised speaking French, and learnt Spanish. Nothing furthest from Chinese; it’s hysterical. “He’s no big deal.”

Aw. I snorted. “Right, Miss I-won’t-have-a-boyfriend-but-a-harem.”

“Who?” My sister insisted, her voice annoyed.

I looked the opposite way, because even if we were in the London tube you never know who might understand you, what with the vast nationalities people have there and all –the Brits, Hindi, Afro-European, European, Asian, Latin, geez-, and besides, a look speaks for a thousand words, right? “The guy with the brown jacket, copper hair.”

They both looked at him directly. And I thought, well hell, it’s not like we’ll see him again. So I looked at him too; he was staring at his shoes.

“I don’t like his shoes.” That was my sister. I observed his yellow work boots.

“They’re not too shabby.” I shrugged.

“His clothes are mismatched.” Our friend said.

“Well,” I got annoyed, who knows why. “At least he’s not metro-sexual, or gay.”

“You never know.” That was our friend, I snorted.

“He’s not better looking than the French guys from yesterday’s ride.” That was my sister; cue for three girly sighs.

“Angels…” That came from our friend; she was in a bit of a stupor. The poor girl.

I laughed. “The girlfriend of the young one was glaring at me so badly, it was as if just by checking out her man I was already gonna steal him. C’mon!” From the corner of my eye I saw the copper boy look directly at me, and I froze. Does he understand me? He couldn’t, could he? He had the whole rugged-Brit-boy look down to the pat! With a worn out brown leather jacket and something white underneath, light blue jeans, and ugly yellow work boots. His skin was very pale, his cheeks were rosy by the cold, like mine, his nose was small and crooked, like someone smashed a fist into his face and pressed the tip in a bit, it was oddly cute, though; his hair was short and copper coloured, it shone a little under the white light inside the tube. His eyes though, they were something else. I love a pair of green, blue and grey eyes, because where I come from eyes are all shades of brown; mine are practically black and I wear glasses, so I bet they don’t look any cool. But I found myself surprised, because his eyes were a twinkling shade of amber as he gazed at me, and I liked them. I thought as our eyes locked, and I really did, they’re beautiful.

I blinked rapidly, like I do when I get caught staring at a boy and when I start feeling nervous about it. The problem was, he wasn’t a boy, he was past his twenties, and I was just nineteen. But he didn’t know that, nor did he care, I thought; he was a London guy- or bloke, more precisely. I felt this bubbly thing in my chest, and I realized with a mental sigh that yeah, the guy had made me nervous. I looked at my sister, she was right up next to me, and she was grinning like the Cheshire cat.

“What?” I asked her flabbergasted. Because I was, it’s not everyday her uptight self allows her to smile in such a flamboyant way.

“He’s staring at you.” She snickered, that witch!

“No shit.” I mumbled. My eyes risked a peek at him, his head was bowed, but his eyes were raised up to me, and a pretty smile was on his lips. I raised my eyebrows. “He is, isn’t he?”

Then there was another stop; I felt bummed at the possibility of the copper-Brit getting off. It’d be sad, you know, cos I wouldn’t see him anymore. People came in, surprisingly less than the amount that got off, so some seats were left vacant. I scanned the crowd with my eyes and spotted him –yay!-, he had stolen a seat for himself; his face should have been looking at the front, but it was turned our way, and his pretty amber eyes were curiously roaming around our feet. He then looked up at me again, and smiled even when his thumb played with his lip. I shifted on my seat.

“Ohoho, he’s still staring.” My sister swayed a little as she said it, because the tube had taken off. I gave a shaky laugh and patted my hair down a little. Ugh, it was such a mess.

Our friend tried to dissimulate –I had to give her credits- when she turned around to look. She turned her face to the opposite way, then slowly, very slowly, turned it all eighty hundred degrees around to look at him. I couldn’t help it, I burst out laughing at her silliness, my sister and her soon followed. “Oh, he is staring at you. Wooho!”

My laughter subsided a bit, and it became nervous when I saw the copper-Brit chuckling to himself, still staring at me. He lifted his right hand and bit his thumb’s nail.

“Ew,” Our friend complained. “He bites his nails.”

“That’s a really nasty habit.” My sister piped in.

I waved a hand. “I can beat it out of him.” They laughed, the gu- bloke smiled. My left eye twitched. Can he understand us? Holy shit! At that moment I found it odd that everybody was so quiet in the tube, but then I remembered people in London aren’t as loud and outspoken as in my city, where we’re known from our very strong voices and curse words.

“I don’t like a man with filthy nails or no nails at all.” My sister said, and our friend nodded, but I didn’t care! I wasn’t gonna reject a guy because- for fuck’s sake, I’d never even see him again, what was the big deal?

“Yeah, even if, you know, he’s not so bad.” I gave our friend a half questioning, half sarcastic look. She snickered.

“Well,” I patted my right, not so sore anymore knee. “I personally don’t give a shit, I mean, why should I? It’s not really a big personality flaw that could potentially turn him into a murdered or mass rapist.” I hoped.

I glanced at him; his face was still red, still giving me those short but scorching glances. I clicked my tongue at myself, wondering why I was being so stupid over a guy- bloke I’d never see again. So I indulged myself in some serious observing, from the tips of his yellow work boots, that I noted could have steel points inside to protect his toes, to his light coloured jeans, with no rips or stains, his somewhat nervous habit of biting his nails and playing with his lips, his rosy cheeks, his crooked nose, his copper hair, back down to his then serious amber eyes.

Damn, we had just passed the Queen’s Park stop, the next one, Kensal Green, was our last.

“It’s disgusting.” My sister’s voice drawled next to me, I looked at my lap and absently readjusted the straps of my tourist-backpack. I sighed and decided to ignore her. “You don’t know how much dirt he eats when he bites his nails.”

I snorted and stared at him, he was looking down. Uh, maybe he does understand. I hope not, it’d be embarrassing, even if I won’t ever see him again- Fuck dammit! That’s just… too bad. I tilted my face upwards to regard my sister with a sly expression, feeling rather grim out of the blue. “He’s a gorgeous one; I could just eat his dirty nails for him.” She choked and our friend started laughing.

“You’re so nasty!” Nasty or not she found it funny; the copper-Brit once again looked at me, biting his nails.

“Next stop, Kensal Green.”

Was it okay for me to suddenly be sad? We stood up and positioned ourselves near the door, holding the bars. I bit my lip and glanced back, his head was bowed and he was hunched forward, his forearms rested on his knees. All too soon the stop came, outside it was incredibly dark and empty, and once the tube stopped we walked out, me with help from both my sister and our friend. I deliberately lagged behind and looked back inside the tube, and saw him staring at us with a blank face, no shadows of his cute smirks left. I breathed out and my breath made a white cloud. The tube started moving. And he started drifting away at a farthest speed than I did. I wondered where he was going, because I thought the Kensal Green was the last stop of the Bakerloo line train; I also wondered why the tube didn’t stop at Queen’s Park like it usually did, for people to change to the National Railways. I wondered all that, and where was his last stop.

But I knew I’d never see him again.

His face became a blur as the tube sped by, and I reminded myself to walk a bit faster, because the station was quite scary at that late hour; two sets of stairs awaited me, and it seemed as though I’d have to climb them all on my own –because my sister and our friend were further ahead-, and it’d take some time. I sighed, and that’s when it finally downed on me. The copper-Brit boy made an impression on me.

“And damn, I’ll never see him again.”

Ah, I don’t own the London Underground, or the “Mind The Gap!” voice or the one that says “This is a Bakerloo line train to Elephant and Castle.” (I think the British Government does), and I also don’t own the Oyster cards, I’d have to be filthy rich. Which I’m not. Yet. (One can hope! Lol.)

Thank you for reading, and if you have, and you enjoyed this little piece (oi, oi, hopefully, eh?) then please drop a review! Or just drop a comment if you feel like it. I love reviews, they make us (authors and authoresses) really happy, so make me happy, aye!

3759 words according to Microsoft Word.

Armith-Greenleaf