I'm sliding off the smooth surface of the waiting seat at St.Pancras. The book in my hand slips away, and I am distracted by shrill laughter. When I look up, I see her and then, her headband. A bright colourful one on a white smooth scalp. She's walking slow, a pause accompanying each step. She's barely 25 perhaps, tall and bony. Her bright blue eyes are radiant, and implores me to ignore her gaunt clean face.
An elderly lady has her arm wound around the young girl's hand. Reassuring. Supportive. Protective. The two are strolling in, taking in their surroundings, enjoying that distinctive railway station buzz. Are they perceiving something more than I can see, I wonder.
I am staring so hard at the girl, and her deathly white appearance, I forget all about decency. I am trying not to think the two extreme words, but they play on my mind instinctively. Cancer and chemo. I hastily rubbish the thought, attribute it to my melodramatic psyche.
And then it happens.
She must have sensed it, my gaze. When our eyes meet, they seem to have a silent conversation. But I am now mortified, and shifty in my seat. My heart, my mind, and the look on my face are not in tune. They each decide to act on their own.
Her gaze moves from my face to my belly. Mine swing to her headband again. In the next two seconds, our heads turn away from each other, our eyes have seemingly moved away from each other, never to meet again. But God oh God, our thoughts meet. Somewhere along, they collide. And for that brief moment, the recognition that life is a paradox or two, grips me.
