Last night it all came to an end.
When Franco woke up, Evelyn was gone.
She didn’t even leave a note. She left one thing behind. A half-eaten bag of pretzels.
He stayed in bed a long time.
For all he knows she’s still somewhere in Paris. It’s more likely she went home. Calling her is not an option. That’s what she wants him to do.
It was fun while it lasted. Another in a long series of fleeting encounters. Life is full of them.
It’s a dreary evening. Cold and cloudy. He spends the whole day walking, trying to sort things out. He intentionally avoids places he and Evelyn had already visited.
He walks. He has no particular destination in mind. He finds himself somewhere in Saint-Ouen-sur-Seine, a northern suburb of Paris. He’s not even sure how he wound up there. It is miles away from the hotel. It rains. Light at first, then comes the deluge. Caught unawares, and without an umbrella, he ducks into the nearest metro station. It is the very line which will take him back to the hotel.
Damp, musky, humid. There are about a half dozen people around him. They made it down to the platform before the rain. They carry umbrellas. They were prepared. The arrival sign indicates another six minutes until the next train. He paces about the platform. He tries not to think about Evelyn. It’s not working. The platform vending machine is offering the same brand of pretzels Evelyn left behind in the hotel room. Their room. Or was.
He thought it was a good idea to come to Paris. Maybe naïvely so. One often does strange things in an attempt to solve a particular problem. It wasn’t in the cards. The signs were always there. Neither one of them were willing to acknowledge them.
The train pulls into the station.
He boards it, finds a vacant seat.
Sitting across from him is a beautiful young Asian woman. She’s reading a book. The author’s name is Pham Duy Kiem. Vietnamese, though the title is in French. He never heard of the author. He attempts to decipher the title utilizing his primitive understanding of French but he has no idea. His eyes drift from the book and the delicate hands which hold it towards her face. Long dark trusses frame soft rounded cheeks and full red lips. She senses someone is watching her. She glances at him. Beautiful eyes with long eyelashes. They only hold his gaze for a moment, then return to the book.
Port de Saint-Ouen. More passengers board. A mother and child, a young man with a backpack, and a middle aged Muslim woman. The young Vietnamese woman never looks up from her book. She’s at peace, maintaining her quiet elegance, lost in the world of the novel. The real world no longer exists, at least temporarily. He wants to ask her about the book, but he’s not sure if she knows English. She glances at him again, holds his gaze a little longer this time. Then her eyes return to the printed page. A delicate finger turns the page. She has very small hands. He tries not to stare but he finds her quite alluring. She grows more beautiful by the moment.
Guy Móquet. Some passengers exit. Two teenage girls enter. They don’t sit in the available seats. They opt to stand by the doors. They don’t speak to one another. They are each lost in their cellphones.
The Vietnamese woman is still reading, escaping the world around her. He admires that. No technology. Engaged with the printed word.
Evelyn wasn’t a reader. If she did read, it was usually some trite bestseller which one of her friends had recommended to her. He often tried to encourage her to read better books, but it often fell on deaf ears. Evelyn was beautiful, too. It blinded him.
The Vietnamese woman glances at him again. They hold one another’s gaze for a long moment. He detects a faint smile tugging at the corners of her lips. He doesn’t say anything. She returns her attention to her book.
La Fourche. The two teenage girls exit. Both of them never once avert their eyes from their phones. An older couple enters. The woman is carrying a shopping bag. The man sits down. The woman opts to stand. She places her shopping bag on the vacant seat next to the man.
He turns his attention back to the Vietnamese woman. She’s still engrossed in the novel. She is unaware that he is observing her more closely. She’s wearing a black turtleneck sweater and a long black cotton skirt. One leg is crossed over the other, revealing a well-toned calf. A hint of a tattoo can be seen under the vent in her skirt. He wonders what the tattoo is. She once again uses a delicate finger to turn the page. She does not look up.
Place de Clichy. The Vietnamese woman looks up from her book. She glances out the window. He fears she is going to get off. She doesn’t. She glances at him momentarily, then returns to her book. He wants to say something. He doesn’t.
During one of their frequent arguments, Evelyn accused him of having unrealistic expectations. He acted on projections, she said. He doesn’t see the person for who they actually are. She didn’t phrase it that way, but that’s what she meant. He knew she was right. It irritated him. Though she carried herself with confidence and class, that didn’t mean some level of emotional immaturity didn’t exist.
Liége. The Vietnamese woman remains in her seat, still engrossed in her book. She shifts her leg. The tattoo reveals itself. A cartoon cat. A beggar boards. He goes from passenger to passenger seeking alms. Most ignore him. Franco drops a euro coin into his cup. The Vietnamese woman never looks up from her book. The beggar moves into the next car.
He grows increasingly captivated by the Vietnamese woman. There’s something about the way she presents herself. It draws him in. He finds himself drawing particular conclusions. Evelyn was right. It pains him to admit it. What evidence does he have about this woman? He did the same exact thing with Evelyn. The woman he desired never existed. Other than physical attraction, they had virtually nothing in common. What could he possibly have in common with this Vietnamese woman other than a love of reading? The more he observes her, the more inclined he is to find out. He’s frozen.
Saint-Lazare. The Vietnamese woman remains. She looks up from her book again. She peers out the window. Their eyes again meet, but only momentarily. She returns to her reading.
For eight months he and Evelyn saw one another. They spent a lot of time together. For the most part, it was fun. There were occasional quarrels, usually over silly things. In hindsight he supposes there was nothing substantial holding them together. Sex. They were compatible. Otherwise what did they actually talk about other than the banal, everyday things? They hadn’t had any deep discussions about life. No philosophical discourses. Nothing deeply personal. They were getting to know one another. They didn’t learn much. They kept one another under their respective microscopes, peering into the lens, seeing nothing on the slides. Then he thought coming to Paris would be a good idea. It lasted four days. He wonders what kind of woman the Vietnamese beauty is. It never occurs to him that she might be married, or that she’s involved with someone, or that if she even speaks English. She’s Asian, reading a Vietnamese author, in French. Where is he getting these assumptions? He’d already painted her portrait, yet has no idea who she is. She’s a stranger. Nothing more. A beautiful, elegant woman in a world teeming with them. Evelyn had a point.
Miromesnil. The woman sitting next to her rises from her seat and exits the train. A few more passengers board. No one takes the vacant seat next to the Vietnamese woman. Now is his chance to discover who this woman is. He is unable to move.
His cellphone purrs in his pocket.
A text from Evelyn.
She’s at the airport. She changed her flight. She thinks it’s best that they no longer see one another.
He doesn’t respond. He deletes the entire thread, the entire text history. He turns off his phone.
Another fleeting connection. The story of his life.
The Vietnamese woman looks up from her book but she doesn’t look at him. She runs her fingers through her hair, tilts her head back, exposing her neck. It’s long, slender, elegant. Like a Modigliani. She moves her head from side to side to alleviate the stiffness she feels. She uncrosses her leg and places the book face down on her lap. She stretches, yawns. She has movements like a ballerina. He wonders if she could be. Then she looks at him. They hold one another’s gaze for a long moment. With this particular gaze, he feels a connection. She’s trying to speak to him with her eyes. That one look speaks volumes, as does the hint of a smile. He feels it. He can’t articulate it but it courses through him. A surge of energy.
Champs-Élysées-Clemenceau. She peers out the window. She closes her book and slips her arm through the strap of her pocketbook, placing the novel inside it. She stands up, looks down at her seat. He watches her as she walks towards the doors as the train slows down. A tiny thing. Delicate. Fragile. Like glass. Her hair tumbles across her shoulders. The hem of her skirt brushes against her shoes. He sits there, wanting to move, but he does nothing but watch her. There is no eye contact. He is no longer on her radar. She removes her cellphone from her pocketbook and momentarily glances at it before placing it back in the bag. The train comes to a halt and she uses that delicate finger of hers to press the button. The doors open and she steps out to the platform. She begins walking, towards the front end of the train, towards the exit.
Only then is he able to move. He rises from his seat and walks towards the doors. They close before he can step off the train. The train begins moving. He sees her a few paces ahead, walking towards the exit. He’s able to get one last look at her through the window. A single frame from a film. Then he only sees himself reflected in the glass as the train enters the tunnel.
He doesn’t like what he sees.
Regret.
Disappointment.
Loneliness.