Being in Love by Diana Lyzohub

They say the Paris subway is full of rats.

Their presence is so overwhelming it’s impossible to ignore. Good thing I’m at the Pozniaky station, one step from yet another unsuccessful love story.

He’s tall, clothed in camo—a set of heavy uniform, way out of season, with a matching backpack double my size. With his neat haircut and freshly groomed beard, he seemed like he had come for a brief retreat. We got on the same station, and I don’t think I’ve seen a face so mesmerizing.

I wonder, what has he witnessed? Has someone ever gone limp in his arms? Is he a caring person? Am I?

My eyes wandered around, hoping to catch his gaze. That wasn’t the case, so I built up the courage to step closer as the train was rushing its way to the very last station.

The front side of my wrist slightly touched the rough pixeled fabric on his jacket. This touch was so subtle yet so huge it consumed everything around. I believe the train collapsed and shrank, and all the passengers were escorted to another universe. Because in this one, there was no place left for anything except said wrist (the front side of it) and a man in camo boots. Is this love?

I think I’ve been in love once in my life. I wasn’t fully aware until it passed. 

This feeling will burn you alive and feed your corpse to its fellows: passion and naivety.

Being in love is like being a rat in Paris. Living off of breadcrumbs and occasional rays of satisfaction. For some parts, you wouldn’t wish this lifestyle upon anybody. But, God, that Tower justifies all the suffering. Who cares how miserable you are as long as your sewer is in Montmartre? And those crumbs might not be that bad after all if it’s le pain au chocolat.

But that’s not about us, my stranger. Not until I even dare to look you in the eye.