Ribaucourt

I have never asked my readers this, but today's piece requires it. When you decide to read, please slow down. Savor the moment with me.

As usual, the station was buzzing. Bystanders, commuters, station staff, and pickpockets—separate, and together—waiting, overwhelmed, impatient, or uncaring. Some were lost in the maze of Rogier; others were experts, pushing through, determined to catch their inevitably delayed trains.

A little kid bumped into me. Instinctively, I grasped my backpack. In the top pocket, just beneath a mesh zippered flap, were 1,356 euros tucked inside.

The number 4 rumbled up to the platform. I got on without thinking. It’s a short trip to the gym; just three stops to Arts Loi. Usually, I walk. Today, I was distraught and took too long to get ready. Scanning the other passengers, I placed my backpack on my lap.

A woman looked over.

“Can I have a euro?”

She had an extra-thick bottom lip. Her mouth was distorted, as if someone had punched her repeatedly and the swelling never healed. Her short, fine brown hair suggested a fresh cut.

“I’m sorry, I don’t have cash,” I mumbled.

She moved to sit across from me. Bare toes invaded the space between us, inviting a glance. She placed her shoes on the seat beside her.

“Can I have your coffee?”

I gave her my first iced drink of the season: a flat white with oat milk. I’d gotten it out of habit, for comfort. Something familiar. I needed it that morning.

I watched her. For a brief moment, I wondered if she wasn’t wearing shoes because she didn’t have socks. I considered offering my extra pair; I’d packed them for after the gym. I would have to open my backpack, though. Leaning forward, I tried to see inside her shoes. Maybe she had socks balled up inside.

I was feeling guilty. Usually, I don’t lie.

She stared, so I opened a side pocket. Make it seem like I was searching for cash. I found a 1€ coin and handed it to her. She had already finished my coffee and was crunching on the ice. Taking the coin, she smiled at me.

I felt better.

An automated voice announced: “Ribaucourt.”

The lady got up. Barefoot, she pulled open the doors. She turned left.

I stepped off too, looking around for the pedestrian bridge. I needed to switch platforms. I was going to be late.

I had taken the right train the wrong way.

I wrote this while standing at the wrong station. The woman lifted me from a sad headspace. It was worth more than a euro and coffee. If you have a moment today to connect with others, to connect with the world, do so. I hope it brings you as much peace or more than it did to me.

Thank you,

Garrett Kincaid

, for your thoughtful and always on the mark suggestions for this piece.