She’s picking her nose! That’s right, she. My peripheral vision never fails me, this time I wish it had.
The young woman in the pretty floral dress next to me behaves like a Millennial; her right-hand swiping through a blue and white paged document on her laptop screen, switching focus with her thumb on her left-hand over stretching her mobile-phone screen, tapping out a message to someone elsewhere in the world.
A Millennial female picking her nose. Have I missed something about the new, cool. Somehow she multitasked rummaging around the inner sanctum of her right nostril whilst handling her devices.
The next forty-five minutes of my Monday morning journey into the city would be plagued with the avoidance of inadvertently touching her arm, the seat armrest or anything to do with the Millennial nose picker.
The carriage jolted. A collective moment of movement, yet no one seemed bothered. Another woman touched her hair, moving it away from her face. A man touched the centre of his reading glasses. Everyone continued reading their newspaper or book. Some looked out the window basking in the clean morning sunshine. Yet, only I were displaying a bead of sweat on my forehead, culminating from the rage of panic contained within.
She smiled at me. She wants me to know everything is going to be ok, the jolt from the carriage is over, the surprise of such a shock has passed. This is not why I’m sweating. This is not why I find myself in a flux of despair.
Where did the contents of your nose disappear to? Why haven’t you wiped your hands clean? How come no one else is horrified by such a public display of indecent behaviour? I’m engulfed with a burning need to stand on my seat to invoke a national debate., but I fear my head will bump the overhead luggage rack.
Oh, thank God! Here is my station. Time to get out of here. I have to touch the button on the door to open it. What if one of her nose picking Millennium have touched the button? I’m stuck.