On going mad

It was when I realised that I stared at people’s faces on the train that I first realised I might be going mad.
The train was cramped. Sweat stuck bodies pushed up closer than they should ever be while clothed.
I moved down the carriage, away from the doors, just like the recorded voice of the polite and well-spoken women told me to. I stood and held myself against the swaying of the train by grabbing onto the top of someone’s seat.
They eyed me uncomfortably, uncertainly, but what could I do? I looked away.
Everyone tries to avoid eye contact on the train. You don’t want to be the one who is unfortunate enough to make eye contact with the stranger, the mad one who wants to make some sort of stilted, pointless conversation.
So people look elsewhere. At a book or newspaper if they’re lucky enough to have one. Otherwise, it’s the window for them. Safe, so long as you don’t find yourself looking past someone else, because that person might think you’re actually looking at them!
I think I noticed everyone was doing this at the same time I realised I was staring right at the head of a woman seated below me. I was looking at how her grey hair was thinning. I noticed the tight lines running into her eyes and the make-up she thought might hide them.
She may have noticed me out of the corner of one of these eyes, but thankfully she kept up the pretence of reading.
I thought this a quite strange thing for me to be doing. There’s no way I wanted to speak to the woman, no chance that I found her attractive, so why was I staring at her so intently?
I glanced around the carriage. Faces looked familiar. I realised that I’d stared at many of these people before. The colour of their blouse, the hair on their arms, the scar on their lip, the way they bent their knee.
Had they noticed me doing this, when it had barely registered with me? Did they think I was mad. “Oh no, there’s that mad staring guy. Hope he doesn’t sit… too late!”
I asked a girl about this, over dinner. I was lucky because I remembered her name, unlike the last time I went out. It was Samantha.
I told her all about it, about what goes on - on the train. Was I quite mad? I thought I was mad, I said. Have I been doing it tonight, to other patrons of the restaurant we were in? To her, even?
She shifted uncomfortably. She tried to change the subject. She could tell she wasn’t going to get away with it, so she offered a little of herself.
“Well, this might sound a little bit strange too, but I’ve never been on a first date before.” I looked at her, squinted a little and bit my bottom lip.
“You know,” she said, “like on a proper date with someone, before.” My squint faded and my lips changed shape so that it was impossible to bite them anymore. I started laughing, in quite a hearty manner. She had tickled me with that remark.
“You’re thirty-two aren’t you?” She nodded and looked at her lap. This made me laugh some more.
After ten more seconds she went over to the maitre d’, asked for her coat and left.
I don’t know whether it was the fact that she’d never been on a date before that made me lose it, or whether it was because she thought telling me about it would make me feel better.
I suppose, it could just be that I’m going mad. I might leave it a few days and then call her and see what she thinks.

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If you liked the tale, have a look at this one: Stranger Tom.