Polo Shirt Girl on a Train

I saw her first in a reflection of mirrored glass. Her stare vacant and thoughtless and perfect across rolling fields and farmland and it was a waiting purity and she was pure. She didn't have a place to go and there was nowhere she'd left and her story was a empty page to me so i could just get out the pen and start writing this rant in my head. I saw her bag and her badges and her vans and her hair and it was easy to imagine her smile and her laugh and her arms and her legs and the beating of her heart moving across crowded rooms, and her bumping into me as she passes me by and the feel of her skin at the push of the bar, and the look of her friends as they push her towards the dancefloor and the drink in her hand as it starts to spill and the way when I lose sight of her I try to look across the faces as I pretend-listen to a conversation about being alone that I am barely involved in. It's really just a lightening flash story that evolves around her as she sit's there unchanged but to me it seems real. I wish I could put a name to the face but I guess if I could it would mean conversation and I've already invented her so why ruin it. I've kind of based my life on these situations.