OLD FLAME (PART ONE)

A ghost from the past stares back from across the crowded carriage. It takes a few moments for the two ghosts to recognise each other. She's changed - and of course I have too. As our eyes lock and the mutual realisation hits, her cheeks flush and she suddenly looks away. Neither of us knows what to do or say, especially surrounded by a crowd of fellow commuters. I focus momentarily on her features - imperceptibly different from before. Her hairstyle is a bit different - a little shorter. Perhaps the odd crow's foot or two around the eyes that wasn't there before. But the ravages of time have been kind - she looks remarkably similar to the way I remember her all those years ago.

I struggle to think exactly where it all went wrong. Christ! - it must be nearly ten years since we went our seperate ways. As far as I recall, there was never any big blow-up or fight - in fact maybe it would have been better if there had. It was more a case of drifting apart until we'd pretty much stopped communicating beyond the level of superficiality. At the time it reminded me of Paul Simon's The Dangling Conversation - 'And she reads her Emily Dickinson and I my Robert Frost, and we mark our place with bookmarkers, that measure what we've lost'. Eventually, despite the sex always being better than good, the relationship succumbed to apathy and one weekend neither of us bothered to pick up the receiver and call, and that was pretty much that.

We had met at a weekly meeting of green campaigners. 'Slim attractive brunette, 28, fun-loving and fashionable, GSOH.' was how her personal ad might have read. Just what most of the other women I met there weren't - dour humourless frumpy types. While we sat and discussed an Early Day Motion on wildlife conservation, I immediately had the hots for her. To my surprise, within three weeks we were lovers. That winter we spent lazy weekends over at her place - long lie-ins, reading the papers together over brunch, walks in the park, cuddling together over a beer in the pub. Her name was Jenny but I called her Star, for a reason which now totally escapes me. And for a while, Star was in the ascendant, before my - and her - attention waned.

As I remember, a major bone of contention was that she was losing faith in the power of individuals to change the status quo - she just couldn't understand how I could keep up a belief in the power of activism to make sweeping changes to the way the world is run. Her interest in what had brought us together started to wane. I think she wanted to take off the hairshirt and enjoy a bit more of the good life. She could cope with vegetarianism, but when I insisted on going vegan, she was unimpressed and told me to stop taking everything so seriously, for God's sake. She couldn't understand me, I guess, and then she couldn't stand me.

It's my stop and normally I'd be up and heading for the exit door by now, but something in me just can't walk away for a second time. Were we fated to meet again like this? What's she thinking? Is she biding her time, planning how she can make a gracious exit with the minimum of embarrassment? (Star always had a certain sense of poise and self-possession.) Is she hoping I'll get off and save both our blushes?

We rattle through another couple of stations and I'm still not sure what to do. Her expression isn't revealing anything - strangely inscrutable. She doesn't look pleased to see me, but then again she doesn't seem unduly perplexed. I realise that the carriage is slowly emptying and we're nearly at the end of the line.

Suddenly she's up, throwing the strap of her bag over her shoulder and heading for the sliding doors...