Sunday, April 24, 2005

Bicycle Metro

You can’t usually take a bicycle into the metro. Sometimes on off hours, though, you get lucky and the station attendant will let you in through the gate.

The metro was the way to get home - there was only one bicycle between the two of us, it was 5:30 AM and we were totally exhausted after a night of dancing. Late August. I was with Gilles, the boy who converted me to the wonders of cycling in Paris. We lugged the bike down the stairs, the back wheel thumping and bouncing lightly on each step.

I looked up at the display panel to see in how minutes the first train would be coming. The number 26 flashed away without mercy: blink, blink, blink… The platform was uninhabited. We both sat down. We both promised to stay awake to make sure nobody came along to steal the bike. We both promptly fell asleep.

Twenty-six minutes later, the first metro slid into the station, ready to transport us northward, ready to carry us to the front door of my apartment, where Gilles would lean in to kiss my cheek and where I would reach around to squeeze his waist, ready to sweep us into my bed, ready to take us back to the private, closed space of my apartment where it would become rapidly clear that we had no business dating one another.
Thanks metro.


Blogger Emily said...

Oh, Shmeeks. I love the last sentence. And here, I thought you were going to get all sentimental on me. No growing sappy in your old age!

Love from Nice.

7:55 PM, April 25, 2005  
Blogger Nicolas said...

Old age, I beg your pardon? Okay, I'm getting some gray hair, but that hasn't made me the slightest bit sentimental. Bien au contraire...

9:18 PM, April 25, 2005  
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8:51 PM, January 28, 2006  

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