Stairs

I saw her walking down the stairs at Vauxhall station just in front of me. She was beautiful, in a cheap kind of way; ripe, face flushed, blue jean jacket, eyes tired, full lips, quite possibly drunk, tight turquoise tracksuit bottoms grasping her large buttocks. High heels. She was either poor, common and fucked up or rich, posh and fucked up. She wasn’t walking steadily. And then, as if God, or me, was doing it, the elastic started slipping on her tracksuit bottoms. With every crooked step she took down the stairs, her trackies fell down an inch. And she wasn’t wearing knickers. And she didn’t realise until they were halfway down her arse. I couldn’t believe it. She was a beautiful female bricklayer. She hitched them up at the bottom of the stairs, only for them to be halfway down again by the time she reached the ticket barrier. She hitched them up again, half-heatedly. I nearly bumped into her; she made as if to go one way – my way, and I followed behind, then she double backed and nearly walked into me.