Sleeping Malice

I sit down on the tube.

Opposite me sits a squat, bull necked, bullet-headed man of unknown African origin.

Our eyes meet.

His are narrowed to scornful slits, his face impassive as an Easter Island head.

I avert my gaze uncomfortably, assuming unknown malice.

Later, I return my gaze, pride wounded, to this time hold his eye.

He sits now docile, almost slumbering.

On his lap sits a brown leather satchel

The flap of which he fingers playfully with one hand

Whilst with his other, he rubs the flat of his palm across it's surface

As tenderly, and with such tacit inward joy

As a man caressing the softness of his sleeping lovers thigh