A crying girl and an old, beaten leather bag

I was outside the train station when she cried. This girl, twenty maybe, carrying an old, beaten leather bag over her shoulder, so big it made her seem so small; you know how sometimes a girl can look like a bird? All legs and eyes and features. She was crying down her phone like nobody had any fucking idea about any of it and she marched and paced and the tears seemed to fall in direct correlation to how fast her feet moved, slowing as she turned to walk the other way, stopping completely when she stood still, her hand on her hip as if to say "this whole thing is fucking useless."
And then she balanced the phone between her cheek and her shoulder and she dropped the old, beaten leather bag onto the ground and undid the zip and took out a pair of red shoes and placed them side by side next to the old, beaten leather bag and took off the shoes she had on and put them into the old, beaten leather bag and did the zip back up and then took the red shoes, one by one, and put them onto her now bare feet and then stood up and wiped her face with the back of her right hand and ran her wet fingers through her hair and tucked it behind her right ear and then fussed with her dress and tugged at the sides until the hem puckered and rippled, the whole time shouting and hollering and sniffing.
Now I had a book in my hand as I stood waiting outside the train station, an old book folded at the spine, opened to the same page I had been on when I first was waiting outside the train station for the bus to take me home, and every now and then I would look up from the book at the girl, each time her face marked more with the path of her tears and I really did think that I should perhaps go over to her to try and see if there was anything I could do, but all of a sudden and in spite of myself I felt very British, reserved I suppose, and it seemed improper and gauche and so I watched out of the tops of my eyes, the same paragraph dancing over and over on the page in the old book I had in my hand, folded at the spine.
The girl was off the phone then. The phone in her pocket. That conversation hanging around her like city smog. Both of her hands at her sides. Stood straight up and down. The old, beaten leather bag by her feet. Her feet inside the red shoes. The both of us outside the train station. Together but not together.
I looked up from my book one last time, to try and catch her eye I guess, and saw the red shoes again, two rubies amidst the early evening commuters.
Maybe if she tapped her heels together three times she'd get to go home, I thought and then immediately hated myself for thinking it.