The Last Metro Stop

Somehow I made it home tonight. I followed my new-found friends to Montmartre, around a corner and back again. We passed by the pub, but didn't stop - 2 dollar beer is not enticing enough for two American girls in too short skirts. Stop for a drink and wait.

She's there, stumbling up the walkway - bottle of wine'll do that to you. Safely past the catcalls and on the street again. Try to hold her up, hold me up, hold my head up and don't stare. Downhill, past lights and cheap sex movies. A stand selling hotdogs, and three men rolling dice. 'Just down the road a bit, it's important - you'll love him, really.'

Five off-turns, dodging a car wash, interstate traffic, illegal crossings, no turn signal, you know. Police have got him cornered, against his car. He's shaking, arms crossed, it is cold, you know, 7 degrees, you know. Celsius, that is. 'Hope you don't think he's gay. He comes off as gay. But he's not gay. He's not. I know he's not. Hope you don't think he is.'

Round-about once more, rung the bell, passed through to winding stairs, winding up and up and up (one floor up), knock, ring, knock - ring? He's answered. 'These are my friends - ' Hope she remembers my name. Why am I even here - acting like the mother hen, gather them round, gather them under, under your wings - they're only 20, not like you, you're 20, so gather them up, and bring them home. 'It's getting late, the metro...'

On three and it's down, 'Megan, right - Megan. Nice to meet you, we should get going. I know - wanted her to meet him. He's not gay. I know. Well, I don't know, but she knows. Yes, see you later.'

Ambling in the street while he rolls his cigarette. They smoke - resisted the urge to ask why, though it seemed so appropriate. And we pass the homeless man, crazed talking in his square, trashing his own bed, sifting through litter with shrewd eyes, watching us walk by. Not brisk enough. The carwash, again. And the Metro. It's 12:35. Kisses, kisses, enchanté, hope you make it home. Don't do it in any bushes.

And the race begins. One without control of the outcome - can't force my legs any faster than the metro can drive. Vomitting won't solve this one, so that stomach ache is worthless. 'Yes, I thought he was gay, didn't you? She says he's not, but I thought he was.' Stops: douze. A dozen. Twelve. Six to hers, and only one transfer. It's gonna be close. Stopped smelling long ago. It's all trapped in my throat.

Later, and bonne chance - both, one, and all four. Waiting, waiting, and scoot over. Arrivée - the start gun sounds - car doors slamming, and my flats flapping on the stairs - try not to fall, watch the step, watch it.

There, train departs, sign turns off - young man whistles, I square up - I could take him, could I, though? If he snatched my purse, I'd punch him like the other girl did, kick him in the balls and reclaim my belongings. But he's just whistling, and I'm glaring, staring, don't stare. Don't stare.

Last Train. What Was It They Said About The Metro Cars? Never empty, always someone, never sit empty, always be someone, with someone, near someone, someone trustworthy or normal looking. No sign of whistling man. Or anyone. I sit. Emptily. Stop #2 I stand. Hugging the pole, wavering a little. A lot. Chugging wine never has a good effect. So dagum tired. Hugging the pole, the sneezed on pole, coughed on, wiped on, spat on pole. Too bad I don't believe in hand-sanitizer.

Last stop, and two big men follow with their eyes. Follow with their feet. I run. Run, run - home is only two blocks away. Run, past a girl rushing in tight pants, clinging to her purse, probably neighbors. Safe neighborhood. No bombs. No muggers, voleurs, peepers - only windows on the first floor, and old ladies at bread stores.

The codebox is there, needed, and unneeded, I remember it, I remember I took the last train, I remember to shut the door behind me, and I get on the elevator to the 5th floor.