I saw her, sitting alone, in the Richelieu-Drouot metro station, downtown. It was late at night in Paris and, as every night in winter, drunks and hobos were there keeping warm in the station. Across the tracks, two Russians, fucked up and boozing, were screaming in Slavic; a bit farther, two white kids with their dogs and beers and nowhere to sleep had lost hope for luck.
My side of the tracks was hardly better. Some newborn homeless had puked all the cheap wine and the cheap spaghettis he had ingurgitated and was sprawled on the floor sleeping so hard he was probably wishing never to wake up. You knew the metro underground control crew would have a tough time getting him out at closing time, soon, while the African cleaning crew, wiping the shit away, would wonder what’s wrong with white trash.
Anyway, there she was. Alone. Sitting. She was wearing high heels, a short sexy violet dress hiding nothing, pink leggings and a cheap fur jacket. Good looking enough.
She was talking into a machine, a phone I guess, trying to look busy on the deserted and rancid platform.
See I knew that, at the end of the line, where I was going, being in the front car meant being close to the exit. So I was passing in front of her when she hung up with the boy she was speaking with. I knew it was a boy.
She was Asian alright. Young, though not so much so. Yet tight, sharp. Forms and figures all over that inspired no pity and obviously miffed with whomever motherfucker she was speaking with.
So I passed in front of her, found out that she was lovely, and I thought “shit man, say something to her.”
So I went. “Hello,” I said, “I’m going to the end of the line. Wherever you are going on this line, would you care to share the trip with me?”
“I’m going to the end of the line too,” she eventually answered, smiling, relieved.
Oh, the violet dress, the forms and curves of her body, the intelligence irradiating her face. Oh Christ almighty!
The train came and off we went.
So I knew that she spoke English.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Mrs. One,” she said.
“Mrs. Wan! W, A, N. What’s your name?”
“Mister 2,” I said.
She laughed heartedly. Sweet Jesus…
“Where are you from?” I asked.
“Hong-Kong,” she said.
Shit, I’m just a French fuck but I know with the little conversation we’ve had that Ms. Wan was not from Hong-Kong; they speak English there.
So, she explained that she was just a girl from an inland Chinese town I cannot transcript the name. Now we were talking. Her English was very good still. And her French too! Goddamn! What? Mrs. Chinese One was going to be speaking Italian next?
Hair of coal, eyes of sweet. The short violet dress, the silhouette, the generosity of her forms, the intelligent face, the smile… Please help me God!
The hums of the metro made my elbow rub her arm.
I made her laugh along the ride and desired her like a young’en. She gave enough.
Then I walked with her out of the station and waited with her. It was 1 am in the middle of nowhere at the end of the line in winter and she HAD TO WAIT??????? What was wrong with her? She could have had anybody. She could have had me!
I left her to some so called boyfriend, the very one who decided she’d ride from downtown Paris at this time of the night all the way down the end of the line by herself. And then he comes to pick her up, Royal, in his little bullshit Parisian car. What’s for dinner? Pizza?
“Where are you taking her man?” was I thinking. “Nowhere that she can come back from on her own. Beyond the end of the line for sure, that’s where.”
I was pissed.
So she went. Violet dress, forms and figures, high heels, intelligent smile, hair of coal, eyes of sweets, and all.
“Don’t marry him,” I said as she waved.
I like to think the fuck didn’t get lucky that night after all.