She could not get a berth on yesterday’s train therefore had to travel today. (this apparently was the reason she had agreed to share a coupe with a male fellow passenger). While we were talking the coach attendant came to make the beds. We went out in the corridor. She stood near me and i could smell the lovely perfume she had used. This did not do my hard on any good. After the attendant had finished making the beds he took our order for dinner and said, “i will serve it at around 9 p.m. in the compartment. Is it all right?” we said okay and he left. We returned to our seats. I sat down as before near the window but kiran instead of sitting at the far end of the berth sat down near. The middle and we continued or conversation. At about 7 p.m. i opened my ‘travel bar’. “would you care for a drink? I am sorry i can offer only a limited choice of scotch and cognac”. For a moment she hesitated then said, “thank you very much. I would love to join you. Scotch for me please”. I poured. They were usually easily discouraged with her patented glare, when they realised she wouldn’t swoon for them and was beyond easy conquest. No, it wasn’t ‘a real man’ in the cliché sense of the expression that she was after. She’d settle if the man was a real person. But there was nothing to be found as she made made her round of unspoken challenges, one after the other. Every stare was broken by an uncomfortable evasion. A vast emptiness of characterless masks was all that met her. Not a steady eye, not an amused glare, nothing. Just the same old wax museum of meek, bleak expressions and pasted smiles as fake as their owners’ alcohol-cocky attitudes. Disgruntled and increasingly frustrated, she spun back to the bar. A fresh vodka tonic greeted her. And by the side of the glass, another smaller one. It contained a strangely oily but clear liquid. At first she thought the whole serving had to be someone else’s, or at least that shot glass. But she was the only patron at the bar whose.
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