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Mid-thirties. Tired eyes behind clear glasses. A leather satchel slung across a lean chest. He scanned the carriage, saw the single empty space—the one next to Margaret—and hesitated.

Across the aisle, a young woman in a pink velvet tracksuit was filming herself. Pouting. Flicking hair. The phone’s light caught Margaret’s face for a second, then skittered away. The girl’s eyes slid over her like she was a piece of the upholstery.

At Leicester Square, the girl in the pink tracksuit got off, still filming. A group of tipsy tourists stumbled on, loud and oblivious. And then, he got on. tube bbw mature

He stepped past her, then paused. He looked back. “I like your coat,” he said. And then he was gone, swallowed by the crowd.

She turned to the window, hiding a genuine smile. Mid-thirties

The Northern Line, Late

She waited.

Margaret almost smiled. You have no idea , she thought. You have no idea what this body knows.