The rhythm of the train forced his eyes shut. He knew when he opened them that she’d still be staring. Sure enough, she was. She did what they always did. She looked away. Head tilting, trying to make the unnatural action look natural. She failed. It amused him – people were so predictable.
“I’m sorry.” she said, talking to his scar.
“What for? Staring at me, or for this?” He followed the path of the scar with his index finger. Gliding it slowly from cheekbone to chin, remembering the pain.
Now, it was his turn to look away.