The smiling guy‏

In an underground train carriage, I find myself staring idly around at my fellow passengers. I briefly catch somebody's fleeting smile. Is this guy actually smiling at me? I look away, look around, look down, look back. Yep, he is most definitely smiling. And in this direction. (Seat on my left? Empty. On my right? A glass pane)
First thought: I must have toothpaste all over my top. Second thought: is he laughing at me? Third thought: if he is not been sarcastic, he must be blind. Or with a fascination for odd women with crazy hair. Or.. And off I go, on a solitary journey of self deprecation. For the whole route from South Kensington to Monument. By the time I get off, I am exhausted. But, more excruciatingly, I feel like a compete moron. Because while I was self obsessing, scrutinising my insecurities, I failed to notice that the smiling guy had absolutely no concealed motive whatsoever. He was just a happy chappy grinning away at the world. He kept smiling at his book while reading, at the man who sat next to him at Victoria, at the little dog that almost bit his finger off. And at me, because I happened to sit opposite. No harm intended.

And I missed it all. Entrapped in my paranoia.

What a muppet.