text: Some people have what the kids call ‘resting bitch face’. I have the opposite. Something about my face, something I can’t put my finger on, makes people want to engage me in conversation. My mother says it’s the family curse. My grandmother says it’s a blessing and I should be grateful. Either way, even when it’s 8am and all I want in my waking coma is coffee, another hasty grab-and-goer will make a comment about the weather or the increasingly poor service of British railway lines. I nod and smile because I like to think of myself as a polite, reasonable human being. Yes, it’s raining again, yes all week, yes hope the sun comes out soon. Oh, your train was late? Mine too, it’s terrible, simply terrible, did you know in Japan they apologise if the train is so much as thirty seconds late? Why don’t we do that here, it’s just an outrage, it really is. If this city had an emotion it would be ‘simmering disappointment’. “We’ve met before, haven’t we? I could swear I saw you at Jim’s party,” says a bloke with a briefcase. The pair of us jostle for prime position, as close as possible to where the train’s carriage doors jolt to a stop. I clutch the cardboard sleeve of my coffee cup, ridges digging into my fingers. “I don’t know anyone called Jim.” I smile distantly. “Really? Oh. Well. Did you see in this morning’s paper-” I am the queen of small talk. It’s a crown I never wanted. On the plus side, I never have to check the news. There’s always someone eager to tell me what the prime minister’s gone and done now, or which celebrity recently got pregnant. I nod along to what the bloke is saying, agreeing that the country really has gone to the dog’s. It’s just easier not to argue. The train draws in with a chuffing screech. I get my elbows ready, even as I step back to let out a trickle of people with backpacks and rollalong cases. I board. There’s not so little room I’ll be left standing but there are no free double seats either. I’ll have to choose someone to sit next to. Getting the same train at the same time, I spot all the usual suspects. There’s the old lady with the grandson studying in Sweden. There’s the schoolboy who plays football and scores practically every goal, don’t you know? On the other side of the carriage is Mary. I know her name is Mary because she is unapologetic about using her speakerphone to have loud arguments with her boyfriend, rolling her eyes at me whenever he’s talking. Behind her there’s a pair of men too old to be lads but still eager to talk about laddish things like Top Gear and the FTSE 100. Today I am not in the mood for guessing if a Lincoln Continental Mark V Landau is a car or an investment fund. At the very back, I see someone new. She’s dressed for the office in a prim grey skirt and sheer black tights, but her feet are clad in chunky trainers. I spot a pair of heels jutting between the handles of her handbag. Her eyes look dreamy and far away. The moment I spot the white gleam of earbuds, my mind is made up. Earbuds buys me two minutes of quiet. Maybe even five, if I’m lucky. I hurry to claim the seat next to hers. I have my pinched smile at the ready, a weapon to deal with the awkwardness of sharing personal space with a stranger. Pretending someone isn’t there when your knees are almost touching is one of the weirdest phenomenons of public transport. She doesn’t look up. I allow myself a slow exhale. I watch the other passengers board, the way they carefully scan the seats for the most favourable option. Someone’s put their bag on the seat next to them. There’s something wonderfully satisfying about the “Is anyone sitting here?” they get for their efforts. Etiquette on trains demands irritation be disguised as perfect, placid politeness. I wait for my new neighbour to pop out her earbuds and ask what stop we’re at. She doesn’t. I wait for her to comment on the weather or the increase in train fares. She doesn’t. I actually get to drink my coffee before it gets cold. Between sips, I peek at her out of the corner of my eye. I decide it’s her eyes that make her pretty, the colour of the sea on a sunny day. I wonder if she’s going to get off first. We’ll have to perform the awkward train shuffle when I get up to let her out. I’ll accidentally stand the side closest to the doors and she’ll need to squeeze past me, making the whole thing even more excruciating. The thought’s enough to put me on edge. I sip my coffee and try to discern which carriage door makes for the most sensible exit. Thankfully, I am spared by being the first to leave. It must be the only silent train journey I’ve had in my whole life. I am so grateful I want to say thank you. The only thing holding me back is knowing how resentful I feel when people ignore the fact I’m wearing headphones. Even the biggest ear dustbins in the world do little to neutralise my curse. So I say nothing. For once I’m not exhausted before the day’s even started. It’s easier to bear the good morning chatter of my colleagues without having to sip cold coffee. I whizz through the day’s customer complaints, managing to sound sincerely contrite on the telephone. Amazing how much difference a quiet morning makes! The arrangement becomes regular. Every day she’s on the train with a free seat next to her. I don’t hesitate for a second, ignoring any attempts to make eye contact and/or conversation on my way there. For the first time, I realise peace somewhere away from home. I get to drink my coffee. I start to bring books now I have the quiet to read them in. We’ve never spoken and yet I look forward to seeing her each day and claiming a few precious minutes of silence. Well, not really silence, not with the chuff of the train and the ringing of phones, the rumble of wheeled bags and the flat automated pronouncements of “The next station is-”. But the closest I’ll get to it in the middle of the city. I wonder what my new seat buddy is like, where she’s come from, which office she’s going to. I briefly consider sweeping social media to see if I can find any trace of her. I surreptitiously scan her for details - a badge, lanyard, a branded carrier bag. It’s at the point when I’m sneaking glances at her phone to see if I can discern whether she’s an Apple or an Android girl that I realise I may be a little obsessed. Then I start to consider if there’s a reason she won’t talk to me. Is it because I’m ugly? Unfriendly? Have I offended her in some way? Maybe she overheard me saying something she didn’t like. Maybe I’m not cool enough for her to talk to, which overrides any curse I may or may not have. I decide, for the sake of my sanity, to sit somewhere else. “Hello, love. Haven’t spoken in a while.” Oh, help. I remember this lady, she’s always tanned from long holidays in the Mediterranean. I make ‘mmm’ noises. I stuff my book into my bag. “Nice to see the sunshine, in’t it? Just last year I went to Spain and-” I make the required impressed noises. I wonder what it would be like if I told her I wasn’t interested. But that just isn’t what you do, is it? Anyway, it makes her happy to talk about her holidays and I don’t have the heart to put her off. I feel my coffee growing cold. She gets off at the next stop. I hear someone else on the search for a seat and brace myself, wondering what I’ll end up hearing about next. I blink, stunned. The quiet girl takes the seat next to me. I should say something. But she doesn’t look at me. She sits and taps at her phone. She’s still wearing earbuds. Her getting up to sit here was a purposeful decision, she was already on the train. I should say something. But what? I don’t start conversations, other people start them for me. For the rest of the journey, words gum up my throat. Everything I come up with seems stupid. When we reach my stop, she gets up without me having to ask. And she *smiles*. I smile back, utterly dazzled. Then I have to run to get off the train before the doors close. I spend the rest of the day thinking of conversation starters. I scribble questions on my notepad, only half listening to angry customers. I come up with a shortlist. I cross out half of them. I list categories: weather, news, TV shows. I strategise what path to go down for each topic. I try and guess her responses. The next day, I square my shoulders. I am ready. I even rehearsed, watching my face in the mirror to check my expressions. I take my seat. As usual, she’s listening to something. Why isn’t she talking to me? I can’t take it anymore! I have to hear her voice. Just to check she isn’t some strange hallucination. If I make a complete embarrassment of myself, I can always start boarding a different carriage. Or maybe I’ll just walk. “It isn’t raining today!” I blurt out. “We might even get a glimpse of sunshine.” She blinks at me. Her eyes look darker when she’s actually focused on something. Someone. Is every word supposed to be this gut-wrenching? Is this how it feels for all the people compelled to talk to me? I used to think people *liked* to prattle on and on about nothing. Now I’m not so sure. Maybe this is just a safe way to get started, a tentative check to see if the other person wants to chat. *Please talk to me. Please.* She nods. “Only because I brought my umbrella. Forgetting it means it’s guaranteed to rain, carrying it around all day brings out the sun.” Her voice doesn’t sound like I imagined. It’s lower but sweeter, soft on vowels. She parries my lame line about the weather perfectly. I thought she might be shy, but maybe not. Already the plans I spent hours on have become useless. She takes out her earbuds, watching me curiously. “You must be cursed!” Then I laugh, high and nervous. She looks at me, opens her mouth, closes it again. Silence. Awful, awkward silence. “The train’s busy today, isn’t it?” Why did I say that? The train is busy every day and it’s certainly no busier than usual. I cringe into my coffee cup. My strange gift has left me extremely lacking in conversational skills. This may just be the most painful train ride in history. I think it even beats the time an old man insisted on telling me all the ways I reminded him of his ex “Yeah.” She leans back in her seat, looking away. “I work near Farringdon. Customer complaints.” “I’m closer to the Barbican. Office admin.” It’s clear she’s only being polite. I struggle and flail and pity the numerous individuals who have ever felt the same way. I could ask her more about her job, but her face tells me she’s not particularly interested. I take a gamble and ask a question I genuinely want to know the answer to. “Do you mind if I ask what you’re listening to?” Her face comes to life. “A thriller about an alcoholic stalking her ex. Not sure if I like it.” “Oh. Why not? Is it not exciting?” “Well - “ We have a conversation about novels. A perfectly passable conversation where I sound halfway intelligent. I make her laugh. I want to do it again. I feel ridiculously light, as if I might fly away like a carrier bag on a windy day. I didn’t realise a single conversation could mean so much. I briefly worry it’s a fluke and she won’t want to sit with me again. But I’m wrong. Each morning, we smile at each other and say hello. Sometimes we talk. Sometimes I’ll open my book and she’ll put in her earbuds, both of us welcoming a quiet journey. “I don’t even know your name,” I blurt out one day, rain-damp hair stuck to my cheeks. My coffee cup sleeve is soggy. I check her bag for the bulge of her umbrella. It seems to be missing. “Lou,” she says. It’s about a year since we began sitting together on the train. I mention this to her and she laughs and says I have a good memory. *Lou* laughs. I can talk about her. I can think about her as something other than *the girl I sit next to on the train*. It’s a Tuesday morning and I’m looking forward to sitting down. I want to tell Lou about this one customer who insists on using a Nokia phone he bought the year of the millennium, but is outraged it ‘doesn’t do Skype’. I bounce onto the train. Look around to the two or three seats Lou favours - window, slightly to the back of the second carriage. She isn’t there. It’s fine. She’s probably on holiday or maybe she’s sick, though she didn’t mention anything about travelling to sunny climes or coming down with a cold yesterday - I sink into the nearest seat, mind racing. I don’t have her number. I don’t even have her second name. There didn’t seem much point as we saw each other every day. But what if she never comes back? “You alright?” asks the chap in the seat next to me. “You look pale. Do you want a drink of water?” “My friend isn’t here today,” I tell him. “I hope she’s alright.” His glasses have thick black frames a fraction too big to be trendy. He launches into a rant about the lack of carriages on the train and I tune him out. I’m thinking. Plotting. How do I find one woman in the near infinite depths of the city? Maybe it won’t come to that. Lou will probably be back before long. A week passes. Then two. Maybe she really is gone. Without even a goodbye. Is this related to the curse? I don’t know what else to do. I scroll through my contacts to find a number I should dial more often than I do. I dial. No answer. She’s probably left the phone in a plant pot or next to the sink. I don’t bother with voicemail. I dial again. “Hello?” a deceptively feeble voice says. “Hello Grandma. How are you?” “Why are you calling me? You *never* call me. Your mother says you don’t have time for idle conversation. Are you still living in that horrible mousehole?” “Yes but - “ “You need to get onto the landlord, you must be so embarrassed whenever you have people around.” “Grandma, I need to ask you about-” I lower my voice so I sound less crazy to my fellow passengers. “The curse.” Silence. Has she dropped the phone? Accidentally hung up while trying to work the volume? “It’s not a curse!” she suddenly squawks. “That mother, putting ideas in your head -” “OK, fine! The blessing then. I met someone it didn’t work on. She didn’t talk to me. And I think *she* might be cursed - or blessed - as well. It always rains when she forgets her umbrella.” “Ridiculous. Witches these days have absolutely no imagination. When I was young, they had fire in their bellies. Old Tommy, he said - ” I have to interrupt her or I’ll be here all day. One mention of Old Tommy and it’s all over. “Grandma, do you know how to break the, um, blessing?” “Why would you want to? Before I met that nice witch I spent all my time chatting with people because otherwise we’d all sit in silence!” I imagine my grandmother yapping the ears off anyone who would listen with her never ending stream of dramas, just like she does now. The young witch must have thought she was being oh so clever with her curse, not realising my grandmother would revel in it. In stories, curses can be broken if the person mends their ways. My grandmother was eighty-nine. I didn’t have a hope of her changing. But maybe that was fine. If she didn’t want to tell me all about her neighbours Messy Margerie and Sly Simon I would only worry something had gone terribly wrong. I listen for as long as I can before lapsing into friendless despair softened only by copious amounts of ice cream. The next day, I decide I’ve had enough of despair. I don’t have to be friendless, not when people come to me so effortlessly. Lou might be gone but I can make another friend. Maybe. I try hard for the rest of that week and the next. I ask earnest questions about paella from the Mediterannean and relate anecdotes about my mother’s holiday infatuation with a waiter named Luca. I learn I really should consider investing in a stocks and shares saving account if I ever want to buy a property. I urge Mary to break up with her disappointing boyfriend because she deserves better than someone who can’t properly pair up socks. I feel better. I feel connected. I feel like people’s smiles are more genuine and maybe my grandmother is right, my ability isn’t so bad after all. Although. I can’t quite quell my longing for quiet. Even one morning a week drinking coffee and sharing a pair of earphones with Lou would be enough. My head spins with new names - I wish I’d found out hers. I wish I’d followed her on Twitter or asked for her Instagram or if I were really bold maybe even her phone number. So many ways to connect and I couldn’t use a single one of them. I try typing her name into Google and Facebook but do you know how many Lous there are in one city? Too many for one tiny screen to handle. You can probably scroll to infinity. Even then I’d have to hope for an up-to-date picture without a hat or sunglasses on. I board the train. I decide to sit next to Mary and see how her boyfriend hunt is going. But just as I am about to head over, I catch a flash of a familiar face. “Hi!” says Lou. I stare at her, wondering if she’s real. Someone behind me sighs loudly when the train doors bleep a warning. I am hustled onto the train by the impatient throng behind me, to the empty seat next to Lou. My heart thunders in my mouth. I don’t know what to say to her. I’m pleased to see her and desperate to know where she’s been and on top of all that I feel a tiny bit betrayed. “It’s nice to see you,” says Lou. “I missed the smell of your coffee in the morning. Always wakes me right up.” “...Are you back now?” “Not really. There was a flood in the office and I got relocated. Maybe permanently.” “Oh. So I probably won’t see you around as much then,” I mumble. “That’s kind of why I’m here.” And then she gave me the most adorable look, simultaneously beguiling, sheepish and shy. “I really miss you.” “I missed you too. I wish I’d asked for more than your name.” “Are you asking now?” she laughs. And I did. And then question after question after question. We miss Lou’s stop. Then we miss mine. We ride the train all the way to the end of the line and by the end I glow, warm and happy and sated by a conversation I want to have with all my heart. After that, a strange thing happens. People stop cornering me everywhere I go. I am no longer burdened by the chatter of strangers. I get the odd person every now and again, but they no longer seem *compelled* to talk to me. Questioning my grandmother gets me nowhere but I have a sneaking suspicion I know what broke the curse - a genuine interest in my conversational partners, a return of their efforts to connect. The only downside - I have to start buying newspapers! And I carry an umbrella everywhere, because if Lou forgets then it rains.