The Man Who Thought Too Much - Part III

He must have cut a rather ridiculous figure as he stared at himself, because the aforementioned woman opposite seemed to sink as far back into her seat as she could get, and to become even more absorbed in her paperback than she had been before. Sid realized this, and looked up, straight into her eyes, which stared back at him, briefly and nervously, before flicking back down to her book. She was young, probably in her early 20s. Her long hair was blonde, but was undoubtedly dyed – he could tell by the roots showing in her centre parting. She was wearing a black pinstriped suit with a skirt bottom and a plain white blouse. The skirt was quite short and Sid could see her thighs curving up into enticing darkness. Just a bit different from my Maureen, he thought to himself and unbelievably felt something stir beneath his waist, which he was still holding in. After his experience in bed with his wife that morning, he’d feared the feeling down there had been deadened for good. He was certain Maureen’s size had killed him off in that way, had rendered him sexless. He had been wrong, and he felt damn pleased with himself.

 He gave up on the Middle East article and placed the newspaper on his lap to avoid any embarrassment. The woman appeared to be still reading her book, but Sid wondered if her mind was on other things. He wondered if she had a boyfriend, and presumed their recent sex lives had been rather more active than his and Maureen’s. Jesus, even if they’d only had sex once in the last year, they would still be winning. And all this time, Sid had assumed there’s been something wrong with him. There had been times when Maureen had been up for it, and she had disrobed before him in a manner she believed to be alluring but which (and he had only realized this today) he found merely comical and verging on the alarming once she was naked. Sid had failed utterly to perform, unable even to entice the merest vestige of life in his member.

 He would have no problems with the woman opposite, he realized. He was pretty sure she didn’t have folds of fat hanging down just below her armpits that made it look like she had four breasts. God, he was envious of her boyfriend. Imagine having that laying next to you at night, imagine your hands reaching down between those smooth thighs, imagine your tongue darting over her pale, firm young breasts…

 Sid snapped himself awake, horribly aware that the newspaper lying on his lap had risen somewhat, and that the gentleman sitting next to him had moved away slightly. Sid felt his cheeks burning with shame, and dared not look at the object of his fantasies sitting opposite. Good God, his mind was running amok! He seemed to have utterly lost control of what was going on in his head. His thoughts were normally as well-ordered and disciplined as his work at the office, but if his mind could be compared to a desk, well…there would be papers strewn everywhere and probably other, more incriminating pieces of litter lying around. He tried to focus himself, to think about the spreadsheets he had to work on that day, and felt his pulse rate steady and the burning sensation in his cheeks ease.

 For a few moments, he was more like the Sid Bartram of the day before, perfectly pleasant and personable, but a trifle dull. But then he became aware of his stomach again, and realized that all the time he had been fantasizing about the stranger opposite, he had been holding his guts in. He breathed out, and then stared out the window as the train approached London’s outskirts and the green gaps between the houses became fewer and fewer. Sid took another breath, held in briefly, the breathed out. Then other, and repeated the process.

 Gradually he became oblivious of everything other than his breathing. Every aspect of his conscious self became involved in the vital, basic and normally subconscious mechanism of breathing. Sid thought little of it, and tried to allow his train of thought to move on to the next station, Spreadsheet Junction perhaps, or Money Halt.

 But it wouldn’t.

 His mind refused to obey him. His train of thought seemed stuck on Breathing, and the sound of rushing air in his lungs as he inhaled and exhaled air reminded him of the hissing of air released from the brakes of a stopped train. Oh My god, he said to himself. I have to control my own breathing. It’s no longer subconscious. For the rest of my life, I will be able to think of nothing else but my breathing, otherwise it will just stop and I will die. How will I work? How will I be able to concentrate on my spreadsheets?

 Sid realized there was movement around him and that the train, like the one in his head, had ground to a halt at Euston. Zombie-like, he rose stiffly to his feet and followed the crowds along the station platform, unaware of his legs moving beneath him, or of slotting his travel pass into the automatic ticket barrier, and of the machine’s grey plastic arms snapping apart to let him through.

 Someone nudged him from behind and he turned around dreamily, his mind intent on only one thing. 

“You left your ticket in the machine,” said a distant voice. “Oi, mister, I said you left your ticket in the machine!”

 Something was thrust in Sid’s face but he just ignored it, and focused on the rhythmic goings-on in his body – in, out, in, out, in, out. Got to keep the rhythm up or I’ll just die. I’ll just become starved of oxygen and die. I wonder if this has happened to anyone else. I wonder if I’m the first. They’ll want to examine me. I’ll become a subject of worldwide medical curiosity.

 A slightly more rational side of Sid’s mind attempted to remind him that while he had been pondering his possible future fame, his conscious mind had forgotten about his breathing and his subconscious mind had taken over, but Sid dismissed it as irrelevant and concentrated again on the endless rhythm that was keeping him alive – in, out, in, out, in, out.