She never saw his face…
…not directly, anyway. She wasn't even sure where he boarded the train. She suspected it was at Central, where the bulk of the passengers had hopped on, where the space she inhabited suddenly became cramped, both arms raised and holding the support loops above as she swayed with the movement of the carriage.
Prior to Central her swaying had been unobstructed, but now she bumped gently into bodies on all sides. This used to bother her, a few years back when she first started to commute, newly graduated from university and working in the city. Back when the commute to work was characterised by nervous planning for the day ahead, and the way back with exhausted rumination about the day. Now there were less nerves, and less rumination, but still the end-of-day exhaustion remained.
Today was no different, and as she gently bumped those around her she realised that this sensation had simply become part of her world. She had habituated to it just like she had habituated to the blare of car horns in the city, or the smell of coffee upon entering stepping onto the platform.
It was only once another handful of commuters got on and the crush became even tighter that she became aware of his presence, behind her and slightly to the left. At first she wasn't sure what it was that drew her awareness, then she realised. Usually, everyone would sway together. Instead, she got the distinct impression that he was pushing towards her as the train's movement swayed her his way. She only knew it was a 'he' at first because of the faint reflection in the window opposite. If it had been winter, at this hour the light outside would have faded, and she was sure she would have seen his face in detail, lit up by the internal lighting of the train. At this time of year, though, the light outside and the relative lack of internal lighting meant only a ghostly reflection could be seen.
He was taller than her by about half a foot, with greying hair and a pair of thick-rimmed glasses. The only other visual clue she had was his hand, holding the overhead bar just above and immediately next to the loop her left hand was hanging from. She glanced up, taking in a large, masculine hand. Cuffs of white shirt and dark grey suit. An expensive looking watch. A gold wedding band on his ring finger, darker in skin tone than her slender, bone-white, fingers. An olive complexion - perhaps Italian? The other point of contrast was with her thin, silver, diamond-topped engagement ring.
Taking off from the next station with a jolt, she felt herself swaying back towards him. Again, he leant into her rather than away, and with a soft gasp she realised that she felt rigidity there. Not bone or muscle, but what felt like the firmness of arousal. Once more she swayed into him, holding herself against him momentarily without thinking, something in her tired brain wanting to check. Her suspicion was confirmed by a gentle twitch from something unmistakably cylindrical against the soft flesh of her left buttock, she realised, feeling her pulse quicken. Swaying away again, she realised as an afterthought that she had held herself there for an unnaturally long time.
Her exhausted mind swam, wondering whether he had noticed, but as she pondered this she swayed back towards him, and a moment later her question became moot. Bumping back into him, she once again felt his hardness press against her buttock. Was he even harder now? Before she could consider this, her mind registered a sudden sensation at her right hip. It took her a moment to become clear, but then her mind made sudden sense of the feeling. His right hand was holding her hip, pulling her gently into him. Involuntarily, she took in a sharp breath, holding it there.
Her eyes fixing on the man's faint reflection in the window, she saw him lower his head slightly, his mouth just behind her left ear.
"Is this ok?" he asked, his voice a rich baritone despite being barely audible.
She swallowed, letting her breath out slowly. Usually even the hint of inappropriate attention from a fellow commuter would have her screaming bloody murder, but something about the way in which he asked - polite yet with authority - made her stomach flutter. Breathing in again, she caught a waft of woody aftershave, adding to the man's presence. She could feel him watching her, his hand still holding her against him as they rocked with the carriage, waiting for her response.