Senseless | H.S

Chapter 2 - Miss. Nicks

2

 

Miss. Nicks

 

 

 

 

I’d have to admit, riding the train three hours every day, twice a day, was a pain, but it was worth it. And although I loved Paris and France I loved London just a little bit more. Every time I’d leave England, I’d always find myself coming back.

Monday through Friday I’d ride the train from my flat in London to the Théâtre du Châtelet in Paris, where I work as many things. I am an assistant costume designer, an assistant manager, an assistant playwright, an assistant choreographer and I help with hair and makeup when I can. I am always busy.

“Surname?” The ticket holder asks examining my ID.

“Nicks.” I sway on my tip toes. I have to go through this every morning.

“Alright…” He drags out scanning my card and punching in a bunch of buttons before ripping out a ticket and a receipt. “There you are Miss. Nicks.”

“Thank you.” I smile tugging my black bag over my shoulder before making my way through the gate into the waiting area of the train station. I pull out my latest book, The Unbecoming of Mara Dyer, having already read it about a hundred times but fail to take notice in the pages. Instead I find myself checking the clock and looking around my surroundings. There’s a tall skinny man with a brown fedora and a leather briefcase sitting to my right, a young mother with her infant child to my left and a couple people sitting on the bench in front of me. A long legged, handsome man, around my age, sits directly across from me. His lean figure slumps back in his seat as he stares my way. Black sunglasses block his eyes and even though they take over his expressionless face I can still make out his sharp jawline and lips and nose and cheekbones. His brown curls are messy and pushed back, perfectly messy over his head. His black collared dress shirt is wrinkly and awkwardly tucked into his black pants as some buttons are left undone, leaving some tattoos on his chest to peak their way through. When my eyes fixate back on his covered ones, a small smirk is painted upon his lips. I blush and return a quick smile before turning my attention back to the book in my hands. He caught me staring. I am utterly embarrassed.

When the speaker on the microphone calls my train, I stand up grabbing my bag and my book. I patiently let other people line up before me who seem to be in more of a rush.

I feel a small stick slightly swing against my leg and when I turn to see who it is I am surprised to find the tall man with curly hair and sunglasses walk by muttering what I assume to be a small apology for hitting me with his white cane. He’s blind?