Down to Bean Town

In a train station in France. I’m to accompany two French ladies: a blond and a brunette. We talk in English until I decide to practice my high school French; this goes tolerably well.

After we buy tickets we stand next to the train-tube awaiting the train. We discuss which city to go to. Without settling upon a destination, we decide to purchase some vittles from the classy delicatessen just to our left in the station.

The first section, serving meats, served by a male, is strangley cordoned off: the rope holders have been pushed up against the serving glass; I have to step over them to uncomfortably place an order.

The second section, serving vegetables, served by a brunette, has no such obstacles and is not as crowded. We take our time conferring with one another what to take; the server make suggestions. There a some beautiful fried pepper slices which we take; when the server suggests something else with peppers, I object, because we already have picked some peppers.

I opt for some baked beans.

“Oh, no,” cries the server, her personality coming out. She is comparable to Zooey Deschanel with a thinner, less-healthy face.

“Yes” I insist, jovaly, picking up on the playfulness.

“You are going to decapitate them,” she says.

“I think… I think I will eat them all”

She looks hurt.

“We are going down to bean town!”

She pouts, and smiles.

“I think,” she beams, just realizing this, “I am going to be on the same train as you,” revealing small, unhealthy teeth, which do not take away from her endearing nature.