Tuesday morning, 08:03. Waiting for the Northern line at Balham. 3 minutes to fill.
The platform is filling up. 1 minute. On my left, behind the yellow line, a guy in dreadlocks reads today's Metro — some tediousness about a report into child obesity. On my right, a woman checks her makeup in the camera of her phone. To her right, a guy in a bowler hat. What is this, the 1960s? Hipster twat. Shit, eye contact! I flick my head forward. Feels like he's still looking.
15th place (out of 35) in the 19th Annual Interactive Fiction Competition.
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