Tuesday, she walked over but said nothing and left. Hours later she walked over and yelled, "DO YOU WANT TO BE MY FRIEND," only to be interrupted by an authoritarian hush and a quizzical 'huh'. She walked away, unashamed and unapologetic.

Wednesday, she asked if she could sit beside. Said that she had to leave. But she kept sitting beside. She kept inching closer. She stole a touch. Or two. Or three. I lost count. I noticed her nails, in crazy colours. Her nails were chipped, but I kept looking at them.

Thursday. She wore a dark blue blouse with white polka dots. I wore a light blue shirt with dark polka dots. I noticed her hair. It was pulled backed neatly. It looked familiar. Rather, it felt familiar. We exchanged no words that day, but I noticed her looking. She kept looking my way. Perhaps I was looking her way too, and noticed her looking.

It was Friday.

She said, "My favourite colour is pink. I like pink stuff." "Ok," I said, "ok."

I remembered the woman on the train. The woman with the Kate Spade iPhone case. That case with black and pink trimmings, with white polka dots on the back. The same one I gave her. The woman who lost her husband. The woman whose wallpaper was of her and her child. Of her in her wedding dress. Her child in a double-breasted suit. And an empty spot beside her.

She hit me and demanded, "Say my name."

"Eh? What?"

I guess I was too lost in my thoughts.

She slapped me. I discovered that I had forgotten her name! The horror. The shock. The embarrassment. And the terrible sinking feeling. I stood there quietly, hoping none of my colleagues realised. I stood there, perspiring.

"So I guess this is goodbye then."

"No, no. I promise I will wear a pink shirt next Monday. For you only."

Finally, I called her name and she sighed. "It's so wrong that it makes this feel so right," she said. "Say my name again."

She looked exactly like her. Who looked like her.

I love you. And you. And you. And you too, I thought.