Day with a stranger

He's talking, but I'm not listening, or only a part of me is. I'm looking down at the top of a girl's head, the gloss on her hair.

The train breaks out from the wooded overhang and we cross out over the water. It's blinding. I can feel the carriage fill with light, and for a moment I stop breathing. I look down again, at the girl's head and there's a strand of hair - golden and auburn by turns - trailing out as she leans forward. It's trapped in the cloth of her coat behind, and as she tilts forwards and backwards with the rocking of the train it dances.

I know that what I will remember from this day is that strand of hair.