De Rien
By Abigail M., age 15
We took the train from Caen to Paris. As the train acquired an increasing detritus of passengers, more and more people accumulated in the cramped compartments. I felt sorry for the poor souls forced to stand during the bumpy, jolting ride, clinging for onto the edges of occupied seats. After my guilt became unbearable, I offered my seat to the Young Woman sitting uncomfortably on my arm rest. She refused at first, protesting softly in French. Her petite facial features were dwarfed by a disgustingly enormous pair of sunglasses. She soon realized that I didn’t speak French and sat down. Most likely she dreaded a prolonged non-vocal/multilingual argument, as did I. “Merci, merci,” she repeated.
And for the life of me, I couldn’t remember how to say ‘you’re welcome’.
I stood in the aisle for the remainder of the trip. Occasionally I bumped shoulders with the Stranger standing next to me, he offering an apologetic grunt and I nodding stoically, too jet-lagged to care. The table in front of us was inhabited by a pair of Businessmen chattering excitedly and fiddling with their smart phones. I could almost see the euro signs in their eyes.
To the left of the older one was a greasy lump of a Man, probably in his early 20s. He reeked of body odor and was reading some sort of poroagraphic comicbook. Cartoon priests molested cartoon choir boys in what I guess might’ve been a humorous manner if I could read French. Across from him was an Old Woman. She wore a scarf on her graying head and a scowl on her massive, French lips. Her face was contorted into an expression of exaggerated displeasure as
she frowned at the Man reading his comics.
I stared out the window and listened to Linkin Park for the next hour or so.
Arriving finally at the station, the Young Woman placed a manicured hand on my Slipknot sweatshirt and thanked me a last time. Again, I kicked myself, wishing I could say ‘no problem’.
