I like to think she skipped down the steps. That is always how the scene replays in my mind. I’m looking at her from inside her head, and I/We are skipping down the steps. I look down and see the the top of her breasts, a look at her cleavage from the top. And then, I’m transported back to where I was, on the opposite platform. I was lucky that day, I saw her almost as soon as she stepped off the bridge. She was wearing a short skirt, with a floral pattern printed on it. There was just the right amount of breeze, tantalizing us as one-by-one, every single male on the platform started following her with our eyes. A decade of traveling by trains, and I have never seen a scene that could come remotely close to this. It was as if, by some ancient psychic understanding, we realized that someone up there had been over-please with us and that we had been blessed to see this much beauty. I fondly seem to think that if there were any blind people standing with us, they might have been given the gift of sight, if only to fuck them up for the rest of their lives.
She stepped down from the stairs, and walked for 50 metres. A crowd of eyes followed her every step, breathlessly. In an almost perfect display of timing, the train arrived at the exact moment that she reached near the ladies car. And then she got in, and left.
And all of us standing on the opposite platform exhaled. Everyone looked at each other and smiled. Men will be dogs, and how!
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