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Literature

Wheelchaired Lover From Liverpool

I arrived at Watford Junction for the Liverpool train with 15 minutes to spare. I settled down to wait. The electronic arrivals screen was saying that it was expected on time. I was looking up the track for no particular reason, when a female voice on the other side of me said "'scuse me, could you do me a favour?". There beside me was a very pretty, slim young woman, probably in her late 20s, with shoulder-length, wavy red hair, pale skin, and masses of freckles, wearing a sleeveless, knee-length red summer dress, and a yellow silk scarf loosely tied round her neck, the ends lying across her breasts. My love of girls with red hair and freckles is only just this side of pervy, and if they're also pretty, slim and athletic, my joy is complete. This young woman ticked nearly all those boxes, but not, sadly, the "athletic" one: she was sitting in a powered wheelchair, with her hands on her lap, her head against a shaped headrest. "I know it's a cheek ... to ask, but could you ... adjust