Pursed lips

"I'm so sorry", I half-whispered to the lady on the underground train whom I'd pushed involuntarily. She gave me a blank stare and her lips pursed tightly. Those lips of hers looked as if they were about to give birth to a smile but then they miscarried or, rather, aborted it. The crescent crease that had replaced her mouth was a smile turned upside-down.
"I said, I'm sorry", I insisted as the receding rumble of the train announced the next stop. "This is Charing Cross", the dulcet female tones of the recording reassured us. The lady's pointed white collar stuck into her beige blazer like the sharp fangs of a vampire. I wondered what was on her mind. Did her husband neglect to give her a kiss in the morning? Did she have a husband? Did her two-year-old smash the plate with broccoli against the kitchen wall last night? Or did her two-year-old only exist in her head? She inhaled quickly and audibly through her clenched lipstick-stained teeth, as if to stop herself from exploding in thousand pieces, shook her head mechanically and re-pursed her lips. Then she dived into the sea of flesh, moving away from me. I responded with a disdainful eyeball roll, like any commuting Londoner would do. However, when I looked down, I noticed that the lady had...dropped her purse. A quilted dark brown Lipsy. "This is Tottenham Court Road", the palatable British voice echoed in the airless vacuum of the overstuffed carriage.

I grabbed the Lipsy and ran after Lady Purse. She was already sprinting along the platform, blazer billowing in the wind for extra impact. Surely, back-to-back meetings about alignment, requirements and pain points were awaiting her indisputable expertise. "Excuse me...excuse me, madam", I yelled, eyes fixed on her, as she blew into the distance. "You dropped your..." She turned around dramatically and registered the lost item with the instinctive skill of a predator. "You dropped your...", I blurted out again. And then I noticed the difference on her face. She had dropped the purse. Released from its straightjacket, her lips had given birth to a full-fledged radiant smile. "O thank you...thank you ever so much", she cooed exactly seven times, each time with different intonation.

I didn't quite know what to say. In the whirl of rush-hour consternation, I searched for a facial expression to convey condescension and indifference elegantly. I found none in the pre-caffeine mode of my head's database. So, I did what any commuting Londoner would do. I pursed my lips.

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