It was late. The lamplights on Goodge Street had clicked on long ago. Kate made her way to the Underground Station, closed her umbrella as she went in the doors and headed through the gates to catch the last train home. In her head, she went over the list of things she had to do the next day. Class at eight-thirty and noon. Write a paper on Plato’s ideas of art. Is it just a copy of a copy of a divine thing? Or is art entirely new? Work on her sketch of Big Ben. If she had time, she would also visit the National Galleries to contemplate Henri Rousseau’s “Tiger in a Tropical Storm (Surprised!).”
The station was empty, save for Kate herself and a small boy with long, dirty hair, whose nose looked a bit too large for his face. He was standing at the far end of the platform and had a dog with him, its hair the same as the boy’s, only longer and dirtier. It was not on a leash.
Kate stayed where she was, hoping that the pup wouldn’t get excited. With her free hand, she flattened her suit front and checked her hair. Her other hand gripped tightly on the black messenger bag slung over her shoulder.
It never took longer than three minutes for a train to come in on the tube. While she waited, she pretended to be reading the posters on the walls. Then she felt the air rushing from the approaching train.
As the train stopped, she approached the door closest to her, expecting the boy to do likewise. But when the doors opened the boy suddenly ran in her direction, hopping in through the door next to hers, joining her in her car. She stayed on her side of the car and sat down, hoping the boy and dog would do the same.
There was no sensible reason for someone to do that, was there? She clutched her bag close to her chest, afraid that he was a thief and would sic his dog on her before running away with all her possessions. There wasn’t actually much money in her bag, but she had her passport, and her sketchbook was in there, and that couldn’t be replaced. He looked up at her, smiling, dirt spread across his face.
The train started to move, and as it picked up speed the dog went crazy. He barked and ran around in circles, nearly falling down as the train screeched to a stop at Tottenham Court Road. His claws scuttled against the floor, trying to gain a hold on something. The boy rubbed his head.
No one got on – or off. The train started again. The dog howled.
Kate tried not to look at the boy. If he had been farther away – if she had seen him at the park and across the grass, even here but in the next car – she might have wanted to draw him and the dog, but here it was too uncomfortable. She stared at the ads above the windows, looked at the floor, checked her watch. She could feel his eyes staring at her.
“Sorry about the ruckus,” he said. “He doesn’t fancy tube rides.” He grinned at her, the left side of his mouth rising slightly higher than his right.
“Well, maybe you should teach it to sit down,” she suggested. “Maybe that would help.”
“He,” the boy said. “His name is Edgar. And he’s not just a dog, you know – he does tricks, too.”
Kate examined the dog again. He had gotten distracted by a string hanging off the near end of his tail and was consequently walking in circles. The train slowed again, (This is Leicester Square, change here for Piccadilly line.) and he fell, this time sliding into the pole in the middle of the aisle. Kate wasn’t sure he was smart enough to do “tricks,” whatever they might be.
She smiled weakly and looked away again.
“Edgar knows how to jump,” he said. “I just taught him last week. I’ll show you. Edgar-“ He motioned with his hands for the dog to come over. Edgar obeyed, his claws clicking against the tile floor. “Come on, Edgar. Jump.” The boy waved his hands up into the air.
The dog shuffled on the floor some more, then awkwardly tried to jump as the train came to a halt again at Charing Cross.
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