As they stood,
cheek to cheek,
their hands caressing each other’s
in sporadic, nervous, intervals,
José and Nigel’s minds did backflips.

José had thoughts of his father back home mowing the lawn in Lisbon,
Nigel of his, rotting in a Catholic, Yorkshire graveyard.

What would they think of this?
Would they understand this
unlikely intimacy between two unlikely gropers?
Would they understand that this is not a choice
but a necessity;
a deep-rooted need,
a forgone conclusion?

José’s eyes remained locked on Nigel’s,
unable to escape;
the pair waited for the other to make the final move.

Nigel wetted his lips and prepared a gentle whisper
as the train pulled into Holborn ,
where José squeezed past Nigel and went to work.

© Carl Burkitt 2013