The train pulled into the station, and the woman held the pole. She'd been holding it since she set foot on the train, and nothing was going to make her let go of it. Not the masses of people crushed against her, not the crazy swaying of the train as the driver accelerated around the bends, not even the girl with the crutch who just wanted something to hold on to. No. It was her pole. A protection against everything - Parisians who hadn't washed that morning, buskers with their never-been-in-tune violins, ladies with pushchairs. It was as if she thought there wasn't gravity in Paris - hell, if she didn't hold on who knows what would happen? She'd float away! Up, up and away! Off above the rooftops of the city, up over the Sacre Coeur, drifting past Saint Denis, never to be seen again!
Part of me thought she really did believe this - even when the train arrived at her station and she was about to get off, she only let go of the pole once she had her feet safely on the platform. What did she think? That if she let go of the pole that the train would speed off immediately and she'd be left in public transport limbo, waiting for another train, for another pole to arrive.
Stranded there, poleless in Paris.
No comments:
Post a Comment