The Hotdog Express

The Hotdog Express.

The train was delayed at Carnforth. Normally it was only a two-minute stop here but today there were leaves on the line ahead that had to be cleared before they could proceed. This train could do Lancaster to Edinburg in a couple of hours but it couldn’t cope with a soggy oak leaf on the track. He contemplated that, rather than putting a man on Mars, maybe they ought to work out how to get commuters to work on time in the mornings. He had a nine-thirty meeting, Olivia, his secretary, could stall the brokers for a little while, but if this delay was going to hold him up much longer, he’d have to ring her to reschedule.

He was staring out of the window at the drizzle. A woman was coming though the gates, running onto the platform with those stiff-legged baby steps that women in heels do. She had a cracking set of pins on her. Stylish. Classy. So what the hell was the dripping hotdog all about?

She was mid-twenties, maybe even a couple of years older. Blonde highlights, hair swept back from her face and fastened in some loose fashion at the back of her neck. She wore a red jacket and tailored grey skirt, very business-like, professional. She looked after herself. He imagined she was the type of woman to do three step classes and would go for a forty-minute run for at least two more evenings a week. She would drink white wine spritzer and favour chicken salad with a low-calorie dressing. Not that she needed to diet, she looked amazing. The skirt finished at her knee and her legs were mighty shapely below it. She was almost at the door now and he was wondering, hold-ups or tights? Definitely not suspender stockings that skirt would have shown the impression of the suspenders. He wasn’t aware of it but his mouth actually lifted in a wry grin when he realised that he hoped she was a stockings girl and that he’d be disappointed if the tan hosiery had a gusset. As if he would ever find out, anyway.

She was stepping onto the train now. The hotdog held in a square of kitchen roll hampered her. She was favouring the safety of the hotdog over her briefcase which banged repeatedly against the door as she boarded. He turned away from the window, instantly bored after she left his view, and picked up his Telegraph.

He caught the aroma before he became aware of somebody moving into the seat opposite him. He looked up, the hotdog was at eye level, her eyes were higher, and green. She wasn’t sitting next to him, that seat was one of the few still vacant, so she didn’t ask if the seat was taken, she gave a half smile as he peered at her over the rim of his paper, the table, a requisite social barrier between them. The train lurched into movement and she plonked into the seat, holding her food aloft so that it didn’t drop.

He read another paragraph about the latest Tsunami but didn’t take in any of the words. It was the hotdog, it didn’t fit. He couldn’t reconcile his thoughts with his day ahead, if something was odd to the formal way of things. He folded the paper and laid it squarely on the table in front of him. He extended his legs, aware of hers, inches away from his feet. He was careful not to make physical contact. Then he made to look out of the window, it was still grainy morning, the light outside was dingy and he could clearly see the fluorescent interior of the train…and her.

She bit into her food, mindful of the residue ketchup and her designer blouse. She licked at the splodges while still chewing the first mouthful. She chomped down on the hotdog. He would have expected her to be a dainty eater, she wasn’t. It was crudely vulgar watching her devour the junk food, while Silverdale trundled by in the mingled image. The smell was too overpowering for that time in the morning, though would have sat-well, and made him hungry, a couple of hours later. He pondered whether the burger-van vendor had had to make up a hot dog especially for her amidst the morning rush of bacon butties. It was a mundane thought to clear his mind of the oral sex images that were threatening to haunt him for the rest of the day. Her tongue licked tantalisingly at another dollop of seeping sauce.

She ate like a woman who hadn’t eaten for several days. After the second bite, she gave the tiniest grunt of satisfaction, she wasn’t even aware of it, but he was. He wanted to cook for her…

… and then indulge in oral sex long into the night. He wanted to hear that grunt reverberating against his cock.

Damn.

He wondered what Monica would have prepared for dinner. Perhaps he’d buy her one of those God-awful true-life story novels from the station bookstall on the way home. He hadn’t taken her a small gift for ages. He was still in love with his wife and she still looked good after baring him two-kids. He wondered what the cost of an affair would be, if it was seven-ninety-nine for his first naughty thoughts. He smiled, hoping he would never find out. The woman opposite was forgotten and the smell of the three-bite hotdog was mercifully receding.

It was her breathing that next caught his attention. He could hear it, long, slow, yes sexy, rhythmic breathing. He glanced at her. She was sitting bolt-upright in her seat. Her eyes were closed and she was deathly white. The carefully applied blusher stood out on her cheekbones, like the aftermath of a slap. Her healthy, flawless skin looked wan. He wanted to ask if she was alright, but it wasn’t appropriate, so he half turned away.

She spoke. Not to him, not to anybody, but he was surprised to hear her voice.

‘Oh God.’

She was scrambling from the seat. Her leg caught on the corner of the table and he watched as a ladder caressed itself, in a two-second fluttering fondle of her leg, before disappearing under the hem of her skirt. She left her briefcase on the table. The armoured knight inside him wanted her to know that he would guard it with his life, but she was oblivious to it, and to him.

She ran up the aisle with one hand clutched to her mouth, the other grabbing at head-rests in an attempt to speed her progress to the lavatory. He hoped that she made it in time. He closed his eyes. For her sake, he was one less person to see.

Monica wasn’t so bad with Gabby but he remembered feeling like a useless waste of space in the first few months with Joe. Her thing had been chicken risotto. He might give her a ring later and suggest it for dinner. Desert could take care of itself.