She was a friend of a friend.
I saw her at a party. Her black eyes sucking in all the light from the room until she became the spotlight. I marvelled at her long straight black hair. How was it possible to get it so shiny? So black.
She was there on the tube on my way home. I sat opposite, not wishing to intrude, not daring to disgrace her presence. But she beckoned me over, as if to say: come over here, sit next to me, look closer, but don’t touch. She didn’t say it out loud, that would be weird. But I felt the words inside.
I moved next to her, my breath solid, squatting in my mouth. She reached into her cavernous handbag and extracted a small box. She opened it and took out a small, folded piece of paper which she handed to me. On it was typed a poem: Richard Brautigan, Love Poem.
Look it up, go on. It’s not what you’d expect.
I looked at her, uncertain what to make of this message, but then the train stopped. She got up, gave a brief salute and stepped off into the night.
I travel through her station every day but have never seen her again.
The poem is still pinned to my wall.
I am waiting to find a love like that. Unexpected.
JP Seabright is a queer writer living in London. Their work can be found in Babel Tower Notice Board, Fugitives & Futurists, Full House, Untitled Voices and elsewhere. Occasionally they can be found hanging out on Twitter @errormessage and blogging about music: randomrecordreview.wordpress.com