The dance he did.
The rocking of his left shoulder to the front and then back.
The hockey-poky or however you spell it, he did on the train.
The look of sheer contentment.
The Cd Player hidden under his bag.
The stifled laughter. The suppressed giggles.
The cold stares.
The Folded eyelids.
The curls of his fringe.
The wrinkled fingers that twirled it.
The looks exchanged between me and her.
The flurry of hilariousness.
The joy in his face.
The swaying of his hands.
The face-paced train.
The flashing scenery that passed.
The whistling of the train.
The smell of sweat.
The smell of nicotine stained fingers.
The smell of cherry perfume.
The noise of random music.
The Priority Seat.
The dirty floors.
The churning sound against the tracks.
The stench of feet.
The shuffling of it.
The dullness of our skirts.
The rather yellow-stained clothes.
The anticipation.
The excitement.
The awkwardness.
The hilarity.
Like they say,
"The silence is the enemy."