I left the international student party early. Although I said that I would meet Helene, Charline and Waleed later, I was less than inspired by the thought of having to endure a few more hours of loud dance music and too much second-hand smoke.

My friends and I were separated by a large crowd watching an entertainer juggling, twirling and spitting fire…probably not an unusual site for these parties.

Anyways, the night was warm but cool enough to wear my scarf and my fully buttoned-up black top coat. The night was also young and I passed a long line-up of MET students waiting for their piece of loud dance music and too much second-hand smoke. I doubt they had a nine o’clock appointment the next morning.

Holloway Road Station…travel card through…yup…no, I don’t want to take the stairs. I press a button to call the elevator up. To my right the underground attendant closes his little office-box door. To my left, as she ruffles through her purse, a beautiful woman pauses to give me a smile.

She’s about five-seven with soft make-up and sculpted features, wearing a red turtleneck with matching shoes and an expensive grey suit. As she turns back to her purse, I notice she has brown eyes and clean flat brown hair down to her shoulders.

Hmmm…how to start the conversation?…”Do you think it’ll be elevator number one or elevator number two?” She guesses number one and asks with a taste of accented good English what we should wager.

I thought dinner would be too forward, considering I didn’t get a look at her ring finger and consequently, I was left without an answer. My hesitation concluded with her winning: it was elevator number one that arrived first. She says she would have wagered a piece of gum. Despite the fact I lost, she offers me one anyways and I gladly accept deciding that things are still going ok.

Once inside the lift, impatient for the doors to close, she commands them shut. “Are you in a hurry?” Yes, to the obvious question. Her train leaves at 10:00 from Kings Cross. It’s 9:30. We reach the bottom level. Even with my long legs, I initially struggle to keep up with her fast gait and say so. She laughs.

The tube ride to Kings Cross was short but long enough for me to learn that she is from Slovakia; spent a year in Jersey; reads books on US European relations while waiting for missed trains; is fond of Canada because lacrosse is our national sport. Yes, lacrosse, something she plays and referees. Apparently the Worlds are in London Ontario this year – or next year, I can’t remember… Lacrosse, how absolutely bizarre!

Kings Cross arrives by train. She gathers her bags and I can sense the immanent departure as she brings the conversation to a close. She prepares to stand. I can’t think fast enough to extend the conversation. The train stops. The doors open. I take a longer look than required or perhaps is even polite. She smiles and leaves.

What was that? Most people can hardly reflect a smile on the tube.

It’s always too hot on the underground. I’m left wrapped too tightly in my coat and scarf chewing a beautiful stranger’s drugged gum waiting for the next stop. !@~$%, I should have wagered dinner!