On the train leaving Manchester aeroport, a couple who sat in front of me grabbed my attention because they looked so ill-suited; a pretty, refined, Eastern European girl and big florid English bastard with thinning, spiky blond hair, looking for all the world fresh off the Danish Viking ship.
They were macking so wetly and loudly that I was on the verge of being annoyed until I remembered how shameless I am about grabbing Figaro's goodies in public, so I just ignored them as well as I could instead of rolling my eyes or yelling "If you want him to come quick you have to lick his balls!" (thank you, Margaret Cho).
The girl got out at Manchester Piccadilly and after kissing her off the big florid bastard sat back down. He started sniffling as the train gathered speed. Awww, I thought. They live in different cities and went on vacation together. I felt bad for them, then smug because I co-habit with my best boy, and then I started inventing all sorts of scenarios for these star-crossed lovers; extra-marital affairs, the woman giving the man the big adios during the vacation, et cetera.
As I was letting my fancy fly, my eye fell on the magazine the big bastard had started reading after he stopped sniffling over the lady. It was a skin mag. He was looking at porn. Really intently, too, like he was studying it to describe on a test later.