Every once in a while there is someone jumping down the gap, then the tube flashes by, then he disappears.

I believe I have seen L on that Metropolitan line train. The seats were covered by purple flannel, spotted, I was stitting on one of these and L was standing not far from the sliding door. L was stamping his feet. He wore a pair of heavy Nike basket ball shoes. I was in my ipod world, the Pixies was very loud, pumping against my ears. But I could hear L ranting. I dared not raise my eyelid to look at him. Because you know, all the city safety brochures advised you to avoid eye contact with someone you consider as dangerous. L made me feel threatened. One night, L approched my friend. O, I forgot to say she is a beautiful chick. It was the same Metropolitan train, L was always on that train. It was very dark. In the winter it always got dark quite early, you know, like 3 or 4 o'clock in the afternoon. So it was not that late after all. He was sitting right opposite her. But there was only the two of them in that carriage. She was, like me, in her ipod world. L liked that sort of looking, volunerable but determined. He tried to approach her. He said,

'Babe, would you come home with me tonight?'

He was just murmuring.

She was, like me, having really loud punky stuff in her headphone. But there was only the two of them in the train. He repeated it, again and again, all through the way from Baker street to Harrow. She was, like me, avoiding eye contact. She managed to get her boyfriend picking her up in Harrow.

L was sitting firmly on that purple seat, he watched his fairy going away with his murmuring going on till Ruislip, where he got off the train, and, sort of aimless wandering.

L didn't left a note. He didn't know what to put down. You know, normally, some young boys, like the Japanese one, would burst into crying on his note to his mommy, with something like,

'I am not confident!'

L didn't have that sort of thing. L found it difficult to put down interactive words.

I can never imagine what a person like M would look like. He is reported to be 58. I think he was in love with this girl he hid in his apartment, whose body was later found by his brother. M's mind was filled with the beautiful face of that girl, her wounded body, her slender waist, her vagina ripped open (looking like a tomato too ripe that it bursts open), her long black hair that spread all around her body and scattering in every tiny corner of the apartment,

'She is my love of life, I want to go to where she is now.'

Under his feet he felt a sudden emptiness. Vaguely his felt his ankle hurt, but not really, his mind was somewhere else.

M can be any 50 something looking men I saw on Metropolitan, Central, Circle, Piccadilly, something like that. I don't know, really.

We switched on iTunes. He tried to make a new playlist. Music to embrace him and me. I said,

'No no, I love Lou Reed, but it is not the music for you and me...'

It was the music he played, she said to herself.

'I don't like Lou Reed anyway.' He said to himself.

He put on some Aerosmith. She did not know how to decline his choice again, so she frowned and endured.

So I reserved the frown in my mind and I endured.

'I don't like Aerosmith' I murmured to myself in my mind.

Some orange setting-sunshine leaked to the room through the windows, it spreaded evenly on my tommy where he pillowed his head. The music flew, time goes away like water. Then the summer breezes sneaked in, the room was filled with chilling fresh air. It's time to get dressed and go.

'Ok I have to go.' He said, he meant it.

'Have a nice journey home!' I said.

That was the only English phrase I knew besides saying goodbye.

'I must have been stupid.' She said to herself.

I was 15, she was 21. We talked about marriage, we said:

'Maybe we can only go to the Netherlands.'

Is it the Netherlands or the Neverland?

I am 21, she is 27. I look a bit older, the baby fat is reduced, and the pair of eyes filled with some stories. She looks the same, after a while she stopped to grow up, except that she is married. We talked about marriage again, she said:

'It's like my single life, we met every weekend and tidy up the new apartment, and then we went back to our own places.'

'You will need to move together with him, eventually.'

'Hmmm, scary...'

25 was the year she dramatically changed and stopped changing. First time in two years we met. No baggy jeans, no afros, she looked really proper, with a flowery summer dress, no less sexy than ever, just the wildness refined. She said:

'I will get married. It's like a es muss sein, es Muss sein.'

At the time she had a handful of boyfriends, but never enough love.

Marriage is, for me, my old lovers marry someone else, I think they are someone good, and my life is lightened with the reducing of those unforgotten loves when the responsibilities gone to someone else's hand.

We became real friends, without worrying about love. She asked me:

'Will you wait till I get old to come back to see me again?'

I said no:

'You will never grow old. People I loved never grow old. We will have a grrly punk band, dream a little dream together, just like the old times.'