The sleek métro whooshed past the eager passengers and came to a halt at the end of the platform. It was on time, as predicted on the illuminated board that counted down the minutes and seconds to the next train. Hoards of people packed the carriages like sardines yet they seemed aware of each others’ personal space. Everyone found a place to stand, a piece of railing to hold and waited for the train to depart.
The short monsieur with a briefcase made a dash towards the train just as the siren sounded before the doors closed. The pretty brunette in front of me and her cute boyfriend moved aside. A few seconds of silence ensued before conversations echoed vibrantly in the carriage.
I love it when I can eavesdrop in French.
The train was in motion. The brunette’s hand accidentally slid off the railing and touched mine. I heard her apologetic pardon which is commonly heard in the métro . Suddenly, her eyes widened and she looked a little startled.
“C’est toi qui me pince?” (Is that you pinching me?) she asked her poker-faced boyfriend.
Standing behind her, he maintained a very quiet demeanour then denied he was the bottom pinching culprit. His playful echoes of c’est pas moi (it’s not me) did not convince either of us. The three of us exchanged a glance, a smile, then burst into laughter. The train continued its journey towards Tuileries station.
Next thing I knew, my bottom was pinched. My gaze shifted towards the cute guy on my right. Standing beside him was Mr G.
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