Subway lust

I was sitting in the Parisian subway, reading a book by French novelist Maupassant. Coming back from the Track and Field practice, I could already feel the burn in my legs and abdominal muscles fade, and I was in that mellow state of endomorphinese that long-distance can give you. I'm told it's like a shot of morphine or heroin. Being quite the neophyte in drug matters, I can't tell you. Someone got in at the next station. I noticed beautiful honey-blond hair and since I am very short-sighted, not much else, and as the person sat down next to me, I apologized in case my running gear bag was in the way. I then found out my neighbour was a gorgeous man. I then blushed and returned to my reading. He started to fumble in his own bag and got out a compendium of Russian poetry, translated in German, so I could read over his (broad) shoulder. Handsome and German-literate? OMG. For the next four stops I wondered if I should ask for his phone number. No, wait, give him mine. What if he's taken? Or wait, I've just come back from my training session, all sweaty and pink-cheeked. I must look like shit. He's really beautiful. Oh no, only two stops left.

As the train grumbled through Paris I leaned back on my seat and purposefully brushed his shoulder with mine, before leaving my arm to rest against his. My heart was beating ridiculously hard. I couldn't believe I had to meet the most handsome man I've ever seen when I felt so high and so unattractive at the same time. He did not move his arm away, but he seemed so concentrated in his poetry, I couldn't decide whether he knew I was making a pass at him or not. And damn it, I had to leave. So I got up, still blushing ridiculously intensely, and left the train.

I turned around to check him out one last time.

He was staring at me. And I smiled lustfully. And he smiled back. And then I never saw him again.

Note to self: next time, give phone number. WHAT'S THE WORST THING THAT COULD HAPPEN TO YOU?