The wrong side of the tracks

As I stand on the platform waiting for the metro home at the end of the day, I notice a man standing on the platform opposite. I’d say he’s in his early 60s, glasses, wisps of white hair on the sides of an otherwise bald head, long black overcoat, briefcase. He starts to wave in a slow, robotic mime style, waggling his head in what he hopes is an amusing fashion, and smiling at a woman of a similar age opposite him, on my side of the tracks.

She smiles back. He pauses, then uses both hands to outline a curvaceous, hourglass figure, smiling all the while. She smiles back. Then one of his hands makes an ambiguous movement near his crotch, but he is interrupted by the approaching train, which blocks her view.

Once he has boarded the train, he stands near the window and repeatedly waves at her, trying to attract her attention, but she is no longer looking at him. As the train pulls away he gives up, and turns to smile at the woman standing next to him.