He stood there leaning by the door, propped up in a suave, arrogant manner. You could tell he had practised the pose, it smacked of hours spent in front of the mirror. He lounged about with exquisite precision. Collar wide open, the obligatory medallion, less buttons fastened than Simon Cowell on a forgetful day. Grey curly chest hair on the attack, a health and safety risk if you ask me. Man dies strangled by chest hair, the headlines would read.
An ageing swinger, 60s I'd guess, dressed like only an ageing swinger would. Dressed like no ageing swinger should. Casanova, to give him a name, was notably overweight. A blue frilly shirt was taut over his tub and tucked into smart tight jeans with a huge-buckled belt. The buckle sat there silently in iridescent glory, glinting wickedly, aggressively pursuing world domination. I feared for my life. Suede jacket and oh-so-pointy brown leather shoes completed the look.
Lingering, lounging, languishing I mean, he scoured the carriage, scoping I suspect, eyeing up potential conquests, a man who thought he was eternally young. I noticed he was flying low, low and wide I might add, his flies a redoubtable gaping hole. Did I indicate this to him?
Don't be silly, of course I didn't.