Women rarely bond; they may converse, ramble or critique but not really bond, they never slide under a skin. It is often a 'She and I', identification, comparison, complain, etc. Rarer are the silent understanding of the other person - (I would often conclude that because the gender is so obsessed with the opposite one they never see themselves in any light). Nonetheless, we all have had chats with other people whilst travelling on the local train. I have had conversations while reading a book - a hangover from college that I refuse to shun. It often starts with a question, remark or compliment; and I do my best to read 'intelligent' books with a Booker, Nobel, Penguin, Frankfurt backing them (some justification for my choice of books). If you are reading a Sheldon or a Forsyth, they'd look at you and turn away and if you are reading kitch the *sigh* is just not ignorable!Yesterday, after a finishing Unaccustomed Earth, I picked-up a Mills and Boon 'The Executive's Surprise Baby' (honestly, they aren't as ridiculous as their reputation), a joy that I have very recently discovered. As I comfortably snuggled into the tote, half way through the book and blaring Roja music; bevy of irate women got in, urging everyone to make more space. In that bustle, I happen to notice that the girl beside me was reading as well. I did not bother to check what she as reading as my protagonist had just discovered her fiance's infidel nature, and she being 7 months pregnant - I knew there would be a major twist in the next paragraph.
She politely made space for me to come closer in order to allow the lady a comfortable fourth seat. Then she spoke
She: "Mills and Boon, you too?"
Me: (jostling with the guilt of being caught) "Ya, I know it's trash!"
She: Ya, but it's just time-pass, sometimes it's okay (certainly re-negotiating with her Id and Super ego.)
Me: Ya. This one isn't that bad.
She: Yes, mine is just about okay, as well.
For a brief moment I looked into her eyes and there was something unspeakable, something that was understood. It wasn't the 'Desire series' that incidentally we both were reading. It was something beyond that, an understanding of allowing the pretentious, polite intellectual her raw space. It was a reconciliation with one's primeval yet silent needs. Emptiness fell back in and moments later she alighted, leaving me guessing. How many onion skins does one need to peel before really knowing the other's never expressed desire?
