Monday morning. It’s been a month since this route is my morning routine, but I still forget to head towards Mairie d’Issy – just one stop – instead of towards Porte de la Chapelle, towards the city center. I usually notice and turn around when I hit the turnstyle, muttering to myself and completely aware of how crazy I look, but today I make it all the way down to the platform, and it’s when I’m considering which end to stand on to make my transfer easier that I remember, and so it’s back up the stairs, to turnstyles all warning me, « Non, » with bright red lights prohibiting entry. I turn back around and head down in the wrong direction. I’m already running late. I might cuss in English; it’s so a part of my daily routine of getting to work that sometimes I don’t notice.
« Je peux vous aider, mademoiselle ? » A French accent on a black man. It’s the sort of thing that surprises the Country Boy, but not me. I’m too used to seeing people of all races speaking perfectly unaccented English  I’ve been used to it for too long to assimilate surprise when someone not racially French speaks French more perfect than mine.
He’s flirtatious, which is slightly surprising. It used to catch me so off-guard that I would give out my number just to make it stop. But when he pulls out a piece of paper and a pen, asks for my number for our date tonight between 5 and 7, I laugh and smile and tell him I’ll be working, which is true, but might just as well not be. He slips the paper back into his RATP uniform and grins again. « Alors que puis-je faire ? » I like the way he talks.
I explain my situation, but I don’t think he’s listening. He’s just grinning at me. He opens an emergency door with a magic key, and I slip back out to the entrance, back to where I began. He gives his first name, though I don’t hear it. Still, I answer, holding my hand to my chest. « Emilie. »
I disappear, and so does he. These are days I used to have in Paris, days I thought long dead.