There was once a man who disapproved of me. We caught the same trains to the same places. The 7.32 express into the city; the 6.05 local back again. Twenty minutes in, 30 minutes out. Monday to Friday, ten trips a week, back and forth together. All those shuttled hours and we never spoke to one another, because he disapproved of me. I was certain of it; knew in that wordless way children know which sibling is their parents’ favourite. Disapproval is not so different from love. Both are a form of wanting.

I could never work out exactly what the man wanted from me. My hair longer? My lips less red? Could never work out what part of me itched and roughed at him. Or whether it was really me at all, and not some subterranean twitch of memory. I won’t lie; there was power in it. He was always so put-together, so tucked in—all pinstripe and polish—except for when he looked at me. There was something wild in his reproach, a zoo-animal glint. And so I dressed for him and I laughed for him. I painted my nails and eyes and lips. I shaved my head down to the scalp. For him. For him. I would wait until he boarded the train and then slink past him like a new lover. Brush imaginary lint from his shoulders. Smile too wide. I turned his disapproval into disgust, and his disgust into hatred. And it was just so fucking delicious.