It's easy to fall in love on the underground. Five to 15 minutes is the perfect time span in which to become infatuated, lustful, in love and then abandoned. I got on at King's Cross and across from me is a porcelain skinned girl with long, thick red hair. Contrastingly sharply against her dark clothes she sits in a serene, detached manner. Enigmatic smile on her face as if she was sitting for da Vinci, not the Circle Line. She looks ahead while I look at her peaceful blue eyes.

She gets on at Euston square. Above the knee, many layered skirt that flowed over her olive skin. She chose to stand rather than sit, dark hair dripping long from her shoulders. On her feet, nothing. So pure even the shit of London's streets cannot penetrate her.

I glance over at the red-head and her smile is now lustful, her eyes searching. She scans the new-comer slowly from toe to head and then back again. I glance to her left and behind her sits a fat black girl with a piggy face. She is also looking at the new-comer, her countenance twisted to a scowl. I guess love just isn't for everyone.