Maybe it’s a boy thing; I wouldn’t attempt to have a heart-to-heart by phone. On a train. Especially a discussion that starts with ‘Did you get my text?’ Surely a recipe for disaster. Every tunnel, every break in signal precipitates a round of messaging, followed soon after by another truncated call. Thankfully, for the sake of the listening carriage, she repeated every question and comment in her response: After her course, she went for a drink with a girl who works at Luton airport. He’d promised to text back in a couple of minutes after his shower. She waited in Green Park for ten minutes. No, she’s not trying to break up with him. He always seems to find things to pick on. No, she hadn’t met a boy in London. Just this girl. If she’d been with a friend she’d have been able to call at the time, but she was with this stranger, this girl. There wasn’t a signal in the tube but then she’d called him, hadn’t she? She didn’t get his text. But why had he not got hers? And who’s that giggling in the background? Is it a girl? It doesn’t sound like one of your mates to me.
Meanwhile, her captivated audience unconsciously nod or shake their heads with the rhythm of the conversation.
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