there is a story in this / edition 1 / métro de paris.

:: metro de paris :: 

"Il s’agit est le vôtre, mademoiselle?” 

Now accustomed to the rattling of the metro, so engrossed was she in trying to untangle the enigma of her map, the spontaneous comment easily startled her. It took her a few moments to calm her wildly beating heart. 

"Oui?" repeated the young man who sat in the seat ahead of her, holding out her mobile. “Il est tombé sur le plancher,” pronounced he, in a pristine French accent, pointing to the tiled metro floor underneath her seat. 

"Thank yo - I mean - merci beaucoup,” her limited french sounded ungraceful compared to his. She could feel the heat creep up her cheeks as she took her iPhone from his hand. 

"English?” 

“Oui. Mon Français est très mauvais. Désole.” Embarrassed, she mentally scolded herself, as she stumbled awkwardly over the apology.  

"Au mauvais. Mon Anglais est mauvais!” When he laughed, not only did his lips curl into a playful smile, but his eyes smiled at her. 

“J’ai compris que!” She meticulously formed her words, focusing more on the smoothness rather than the pronunciation. In doing so, she slaughtered the accent, but managed to timidly smile back.

"Très bien!” he beamed. She would have liked to have seen him smile like that all the time. 

He began to rise, while the flying metro slowly lurched to a stop. He smiled widely again, his eyes sparkled mischievously. “Il s’agit de mon arrêt. Je souhaite seulement que j’aurais pu avoir le plaisir de vous connaître plus. Enchantee, mademoiselle. Au revoir." 
She frantically tried to jog her memory for a translation of the few words she happened to recognize, but the only thing she understood was the abrupt “goodbye.” Without a even chance for her to reply, he melted into the toppling crowd filing out the sliding doors.

She was in a daze. For a second there, she wondered, if the passing moment had been a reverie - if her nonsensical poet-side had spun the story up, as a way to distract her from untangling the dizzying mess of blue and red routes on the metro map upon her lap. Paris was not called the “City of Love” for nothing, she mused under her breath. Shaking her head out of her dreams, she returned to the task of tracing the blue line with her index finger through the metropolitan labyrinth.

Monceau to Belleville. Belleville to Hotel de Ville...

Her mobile, suddenly vibrated, interrupting her thoughts. The reminder made her heart skip a beat into a tangled mess of maddening confusion. 

It read: “11:23 A.M. Tip: Translator is good. And you are beautiful.”

She heard someone clearing his voice, and glanced up with wild eyes to see a familiar face beaming at her impishly from across the row.

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there is a story in this: is a collaboration between myself and the ever-astounding, forever lovely, incredibly talented, and one of my dearest friends 

miss mikailah of wander/wonder. the focus is to take stills from this board, to motivate us to set aside time to spin stories amidst our busy lives, and to unearth the pinches of fiction currently squeezing our hearts. read the mikailah's breath-taking compositions: EDITION I & II on her lovely blog.

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xx 

postscript // i wrote a few lines of my "signature" rambling, i-don't-know-why-you-continue-to-read-my-silly free verse for my beyond amazing, world-traveling "Pond" here.   

 send my dear Amelia some love, whydontcha? 

*note: I also have literally zero knowledge of the French language {another thing to add to my ever-lengthening list}, and all French phrases above I owe to the life-saving Bing Translator.  

*disclaimer: image found via pinterest and is credited to: eleazar on flicker.