Tube Love

There is this couple. I think he's called Rob, and I don't know what she's called. They get on my tube train almost every morning, same carriage, same seats. Creatures of habit, like me, until I remember I'm a creature of habit and shake things up.

Anyway Rob. 29. He is a big lad, proper Essex. Often in shell suit trousers, sometimes a suit, but rarely. Good hair, chunky build, drooping eyelids, fixed expression. He's not a smiler. Not in the mornings. Reads the Sun... doesn't opt for the Metro at all. Wears a massive gold ring. "RB" says the ring. You would be worried if you saw him with 10 pints down him.

She's a nightmare. 30sih too I'd say. Crazy greasy corkscrew hair, in some places smeared down, in others alive and bouncing around. Pan-face. Looks like the sort of girl you would not mess with under any circumstances.

When I first started getting the Victoria Line, about 6 years ago, they were so in love. Love was in their movements, their closeness, the goodbyes, the kiss. They shared the paper, sometimes the ipod headphones. They looked brighter, perkier.

But it struck me the other day. Getting off the train in front of me - barely a look, barely a word, and then him heading off at Finsbury Park, her heading through the tunnel to the Piccadilly Line and giving off this one long heavy sigh. I think it's coming to an end. Poor Rob and curly haired greasy girl. I hope they can make it through.