She’s got new shoes. At the end of long, bare and goose-pimpled legs, they are conspicuously shiny and uncomfortable, and she does not know what to do with them.

They are tucked together primly, her knees higher than she is used to.

They are stretched out in front, swaying on the points of the heels.

They are pigeon-positioned, with her tote bag between ankles.

Her toes wiggle in their unfamiliar confines, and she finds herself sneaking glances at these new additions, admiringly, just as other commuters do the same to her.

Trotters stuffed in phat-laced white adidas, with jeans suitably distressed and earnest meeja glasses. He’s reading a limited-print-run magazine - the kind with incredibly stylised fashion photography and wrapped in an achingly ironic cover - a gorgeous woman in a pig mask - with a single-syllable name.

Munt. Vibe. Tramp. Shunt. Meh.

He is flipping through the pages, impatiently, and his lips move as his piggy eyes flick across the pages.

She can’t stop fidgeting. First she’s opening a bank statement, then rearranging the contents of her handbag, then rummaging in her coat pocket to change the track on her music player, then faffing with tucking her hair behind her ears.

With every twitch, her downy jacket, which adds an inch to her personal space, or takes one off, intrudes upon the suited man beside her. With every brush of her puffa, he huffs a little louder, and rearranges himself to withdraw from her contact.

His annoyance increases at precisely the same rate as her awareness doesn’t.