Tuesday, June 27, 2006
The Holiday Girl
Today I saw The Girl again. She was on the tube between King's Cross and Great Portland Street, on my way to work. Today she was blonde, in a cream jumper with scruffy jeans. But I've seen her in many other guises. Sometimes walking through the park, sat across from me in the cinema, on holiday when I was a kid. She never seems to age and she's everywhere.
The Girl is always pretty, but never impossibly beautiful. She's part romantic fantasy, part idle day dream. I spy her out of the corner of my eye as we sit opposite each other on the tube. Today her hair is short, and she's dressed casually as always. The Girl to me is never dolled up, rarely made up, often looking a little bored or tired. But I always fall in love with her straight away, projecting my needs and desires onto the blank slate of her unknown personality. I can follow the fantasy to it's logical conclusions: love, marriage, kids, growing old together in crazed bliss. But just a fantasy of course. Although I might momentarily meet her gaze, you can never talk to The Girl. Then she's not The Girl any more, she's a real person, who probably reads Heat and likes Robbie Williams.
I'm sure I'm not alone. It's a daydream I'm sure both sexes have at distracted moments. It's behind some of our less inspired works of art (I saw her on the subway, she was with another man). It's a daydream without consequence, without issues, without reality. But I suppose that's what romance is really.
And maybe, just maybe, she's sitting looking at me wondering if I'm The Boy.
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