Page 2 of Blue Eyes & Paris Vibes

I chuckle and pat the pocket with my metro ticket, feeling like a VIP that gets to skip the line of people with regular tickets to be waved inside without any waiting time. I need to thank Max for the ticket later, even if it got me run over.

As I walk by the crowd my eyes catch the sight of a frustratingly well-fitting blue sweater on frustratingly wide shoulders. It’s the asshole who ran me over, putting money into one of the machines and my fantasies of revenge return with a vengeance.

Do I wait for him to pass me and kick his shin? Step on the back of his shoe? Take out my bottle of water, pretend to trip and drench him?

Or maybe I should run him over and tell him to watch where the fuck he’s going. Oh, I like that idea!

But I stop myself. Come on, Abby. You’re better than that. My parents taught me to always treat people with kindness, even assholes who make you introduce your butt to a filthy train station ground.

“Once you’ve made a bad first impression, it’s very hard to make a positive one,” my dad always says and as much as I hate to admit it, and as much as I’d love to take revenge into my own hands, he’s right. I force myself to take a deep breath and roll my shoulders in an attempt to calm down. Karma will have something in store for him. He will get his comeuppance, even if I might not be around to witness it.

And I can imagine all the worst ways that’s going to happen. Now, that brings a genuine smile to my face again.

According to my map, I need to take Line 5. After scanning the station ceiling for a while, I spot the signs pointing me in the right direction. Following them feels like being in a scavenger hunt, some of them so hidden it feels like they want tourists to get lost in this station. I pull my suitcase after me through corridors that are so long I wonder if I even need to take the metro and haul it down so many flights of stairs I’m already exhausted thinking about the way back up, but eventually, I make it to the right platform, barely able to even have a look at the station before a train arrives.

I step in fast, wedge my suitcase into a corner, and grab onto the railing, eyes darting around nervously. The gentleman mentioning theft on the metro made me more paranoid than my brother ever could have.

Just as the doors close, a man jumps into the train at the very last second. I grimace.

It’s Mr. Rude. Again. He is talking into his phone loudly, not noticing the glares most of the passengers direct at him. Or maybe he doesn’t care. He certainly seems like someone who doesn’t care about the opinions of strangers.

I glance at my phone, then intently study the map on the opposite wall, narrowing my eyes to make out the station names, then let my eyes dart around the carriage, anywhere really so I can avoid looking at him. Because if I don’t, the revenge thoughts will win. And because now that I can actually see his face, it turns out he’s handsome as well, and I will not have his perfectly chiseled jaw and striking blue eyes cancel out my rage.

Shame, really. He’s a hottie. It’s the first time I dare to get a closer look at him and if I didn’t know he is so rude, I’d have a crush on him for sure. Brown hair falls into his piercing blue eyes full of annoyance at the world, seemingly. His tanned face is scrunched up. I’ve noticed the color of his sweater, but not that it fits really well in all the right places. You can clearly see that it covers a toned body. A body that can totally take a kick to the shin.

“No, Abby. Be nice. Deep breaths,” I tell myself silently, repeating the sentence like a mantra until we pull into the station where I need to change trains.

“Pardon,” I mumble, as I push my way out of the carriage, suitcase in tow. To my dismay, Mr. Rude exits the train as well. I was half hoping to have the chance to roll over his polished black shoes with my suitcase or at least bang it against his shin, but not a chance. After all, a girl can only have so much restraint.

He storms off like he’s chasing his girlfriend who just left him and I sigh, hoping that’s the last I’ve seen of his infuriatingly well-fitting blue suit and surprisingly handsome face.

But alas.

Four train lines run at this station, each with its own platform and I cause more than a few curses when I need to stop for a second to read the damned signs or pick up my suitcase to carry it down the surprisingly many sets of stairs hidden in this underground labyrinth the Parisians call their metro. I’m just glad I find my way without a hitch and even get to the platform in the right direction on the first try. Yay, it’s me, a professional tourist.

A sigh falls from my lips as I finally step onto the platform and recognize a familiar sweater from the corner of my eye. Goddamnit, how does he appear everywhere I am? Is this the universe’s way of saying ‘hi, here’s your new nemesis?’

So I hastily walk away from Mr. Rude, as the train is already driving into the station, and I hop onto it worryingly close to the doors shutting and trapping my suitcase in between.

“Holy shit, that was close,” I mutter, heart beating into my throat and ignoring the annoyed stares from the people around me. Now I know what the glass barriers are for. Those doors are merciless. I wouldn’t be surprised if they crushed any- and everything daring to be in its way, which would almost have been my suitcase. Or arm.

The train is empty enough so I can take a seat right next to the door, tucking my suitcase between my legs and pressing my backpack against the backrest. I take out my phone and text my brother his demanded message that I’ve arrived in Paris safely.

Me: Made it to the metro. Some jerk ran me over on the platform at Gare du Nord, though.

Max: Welcome to Paris. Have fun, sis!

Me: Oui, oui.

Max: Don’t pick a fight.

Damn. He knows me too well.

I answer him with a crying emoji and put the phone back into the inner pocket of my jacket and zip it close.

My brother has been urging me to visit Paris, ever since I made an offhand comment of not understanding the hype about it. The streets I saw were grey and dirty, drivers are rude and the traffic is chaotic.

To be fair, I always stayed pretty close to Gare du Nord though, which, according to my brother, is not exactly one of Paris’ flagships. Max used to pester me to go and have a look at other parts of the city, but I just never had the time, or when I had it, I lacked either money or motivation.

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