From Paris to London - a short story

From Paris to London

There are raindrops on the window. The city outside looks blurry and grey. It’s just another rainy Wednesday morning. Taylor Swift is singing silently, but I’m not listening. I’m thinking about you and your soft lips, as the train is rattling through the murky weather.

You kissed me the last time when the sun was still shining for me. You smelled manly and your lips tasted salty from the water we were standing in. Drops of water were running down your upper body, carefully caressing your abs as your skin was covered in goosebumps. Your skin had a caramel shade from all the time we had spent in the sun during this summer.

“I love you”. You whispered in my ear. There were a thousand butterflies in my belly and I couldn’t believe how lucky I was. But this all ended when I had to go home and you couldn’t decide whether or not you were ready to live with me.

Now I am sitting on the train on my way to university and haven’t talked to you in three weeks. Being separated from you is too much pain and you are not somebody who’d make a hasty decision. Especially not if you have to give up on croissants and the “Joie de vivre”. 

The train stops. People buzz in and out like swarms of bees which are ready to fly out to find some nectar. A man is standing next to the door with an open newspaper in his hands. “The queen is celebrating her 60^th jubilee”, I can’t say that I care, but my eyes are wandering around in the compartment while I am trying to find something to distract myself from daydreaming about you.

I had spilled my coffee across the floor yesterday morning, because I didn’t see the teenager with the headphones on, who had just come in through the train door. He had dropped his books and they landed in a puddle of my chocolate mocha. It didn’t help that the whipped cream had spread all over Analytics 101. He didn’t smile, he didn’t get angry, but he certainly didn’t look too pleased either. I tried to wipe the whipped cream off with my shawl, but that ended in a pattern which was reminiscent of a rather dirty looking cloud on the book cover. The boy yanked the book away from me and proceeded to sit down as far away from me as possible.

I couldn’t use my shawl today, because I had to wash it yesterday. My neck is getting stiff from the chill that’s coming in from the window two seat rows in front of me. I decide to put my hood on my head, even though that makes it more difficult to look around the coupé. The window is open, because another man had opened it after the first homeless person had gone through the compartment and asked for money. I felt sorry for him, even though his body odor was quite unbearable for anyone. It makes you wonder whether or not people are still able to smell themselves, or if they lose this ability when things don’t matter anyway.

When love doesn’t matter, we become apathetic. In a sense, our everyday becomes just as murky as the weather outside. We are just empty shells that move around and follow orders or the structures that we were born into. Empathy helps to overcome this state of meaninglessness. The relationship we have with others makes us who we are. You make me and I make you – but sometimes, we need to be apart to realize that.

Russell Square – it is time for me to get out of the train. Plenty of young people with backpacks are walking down the street, some faster, some slower. I swim along like a little mackerel in a school of fish – brainless and hoping that swimming will eventually get me to where I need to be – even though it did not help you with on your path.

It’s still raining. The rim of my pants is getting soaked and the cold and dampness is slowly creeping up my leg. I accidently step in a bigger puddle between the street and the curb that I didn’t expect to be quite as deep. My backpack is getting heavier with every step that I take. My cellphone used to vibrate in my pants’ pocket, every time you’d send me a message. Now it’s just in there like a brick that pulls me down further.

As I reach the university building, I see a note that’s hanging on the door: “Mr. Peterson is sick, please read pp. 90-250. There will be a quiz on Friday”. In other words, I came here for nothing. This day couldn’t get any worse.

But since I had already left my house for no reason, I decided to tour London a bit. Sure, I had seen the gist of it on my first trip to London in 2004, but I haven’t had the time to visit all the museums. Today, it would be the British museum. The British museum is enormous in size, but something pulled me to the Etruscans. As I made my way through vases and other fascinating objects, I see a little duck. This duck askos reminds me of the time we had fed some ducks in the pond near your apartment. We had sat on a wooden bench that would make noises whenever we moved just the tiniest bit.

It was our very first day together. We were meeting as friends. We had been friends in forever, but had never managed to meet for real. You had suggested that I could just come over to your place during the summer, because my summer holiday plans had been cancelled when my previous boyfriend broke up with me. And because I didn’t have anything better to do, I said yes. I did not know that friendship would turn into love, or that it had eventually turned into love long before I had ever realized it.

I tried to feed the ducks and you were leaning over to assist me with throwing some bread crumbs. After one spectacularly horrible throw, I ended up ramming my elbow into your crotch. Embarrassed as I was, I held a hand in front of my mouth and yelled: “No, no, no, I am sorry”, while you were folded up like a camping chair and gasping for air in pain. I wanted to help you, but you just needed to take your time to get over the pain. And so I sat there, not knowing what to do and began to rub your back gently, while I begged you for forgiveness. That was when you took my hand for the first time.

You took my hand in yours and looked me in the eyes. With your other hand, you began to wipe the tears out of my face, as you slowly came closer. While I still had my other hand on your back, you kissed me. First slowly, then more demanding, all the while with a bench below us that was cracking in excitement.

As I come to my senses again, I realize that I must have been standing here in front of this duck for at least the last fifteen minutes. Luckily, this museum is way too big for anyone to realize that you might be doing something awkward in it. On the duck askos itself, there is a couple. The comment below it says that they are lovers, who appear as though they are swimming. Quite like you and me in my best memory. If there was an item to describe our love, then this would surely be it.

“I knew I would find you here”, a voice is mumbling out of the darkness. I cringe. If there is something about you that I will never forget, then it is your deep and rumbling voice. I turn around and charge towards you. “What are you…”, but before I can as you anything, you lay your right index finger over my mouth and whisper: “Shhh”. 

Your lips replace the finger in a haste and you are kissing and holding me as if you never want to let me go. After what seems like forever, a lady comes in the room and coughs an “Ehum” into our general direction. Our lips part and it feels like I just woke up on a brighter and better day.

“Sorry”, we apologize to the woman. With your hand in mine, we walk around the museum for a bit, not saying anything. We are just smiling smiles that would make the Mona Lisa jealous. But she isn’t here anyway. You don’t need her and Paris anymore. You decided to trade them in for me and London.