[I hope this story gives you a nice escape to Paris along with some humour and romance; thanks for reading! :-) ]

***

The thing about Paris is...a random encounter can completely change the trajectory of your life.

Which is exactly what happened to Neela on a random summer evening in the city of lights.

Before ever setting foot in Paris, Neela had been reading about it in books, soaking it in through the screen, ogling it via decorative throw pillows...Paris was somehow everywhere despite a whole ocean of distance.

Familiarity aside, Neela always knew that one day...she would have to experience all of Paris for herself.

Soon after Neela arrived in Paris, she would find herself on the verge of tears from her very first taste of a buttery croissant, a logical response to a chewy-flaky combo unlike anything she'd ever experienced. She would also discover how at peace she could feel just from spending an afternoon reading a book in one of Paris's sprawling gardens. This, along with several other magical solo moments, was quickly proving Paris to be all that she'd imagined and more.

As for the men in Paris...a category unto their own. We will get to that.

This elevated existence was so remarkable to Neela, that she soon realized it could not be experienced within the limits of a work-approved vacation. She needed more. She needed so much more in fact, that she eventually went from a fully-grown woman living a normal life in North America, to a restless soul who would leave it all behind for the 'promise.'

The promise of Paris.

Less income, less comfort, no family, the uphill battle of learning a new culture and making new friends...oh what fun! Despite these challenges, it had all been worth it since the very day she'd packed up her Toronto possessions and moved to Paris eighteen months ago.

Speaking of those eighteen months...it would be terribly inaccurate to summarize this timeframe without making any reference to the men.

Oh the men...

As a modern woman of the world, Neela didn't need a man, and if forced to play a game of would-you-rather, she would obviously choose French wine, baguettes and cheese over a man every time.

Gourmet delights aside, it was also true that men could be a lot of fun. And another truth? The city of Paris was steeped in the sparkling romance of centuries past. With a reputation like that, the chances of meeting fascinating men in unexpected ways were good. Extremely good.

These random encounters were quick to pile up, and every now and then, as Neela would soon learn, a random encounter however fleeting, could in fact leave a lasting impression...

***

It was a beautiful late day in early summer, the sort of breezy affair when the sunlight hung around well into the evening hours.

On this balmy day, the tourists made their way down a crowded boulevard, too distracted by directions or family squabbles to admire the packed terraces where laughter echoed in the air.

Neela squeezed past a particularly loud cluster of tourists, her annoyance building by the second. After eighteen months she definitely still loved Paris, but she didn't love how tourists felt the need to spread their bodies across the entire width of the sidewalk.

Her long stylish dress and patent leather booties screamed 'boogie six-course dinner,' but instead of a luxury car with tinted black windows, she was headed for the grimy underground métro.

By the time she'd made it down the stairwell, the beauty of Paris had been exchanged for rowdy youths, eccentric geriatrics, a lot of yelling, and smells that should never be spoken of again.

Despite these assaults on the senses, the métro was cheap and also convenient, with fourteen lines that took you anywhere you needed to go.

Neela's long dress flowed behind her brisk steps, but she stopped abruptly when she heard an unexpected sound.

Or a series of sounds.

These sounds indicated a stairwell tumble she wouldn't wish upon her biggest enemy.

She spun around and saw a man—or what used to be a man—crumpled into a mess of limbs and polyester.

"Holy shit!" Those two words were all that Neela could manage to say, before rushing over to the man to make sure he wasn't dead.

"Monsieur!"

His groan indicated he was still of this earth, and he seemed unbroken enough to prop himself into a seated position.

"Mes papiers..." he uttered.

She glanced over at the fancy leather bag that was turned upside down, its contents strewn everywhere and already getting stepped on.

She hurried over, piled up the papers, stuffed them back into the bag and brought it over.

"Et voilà," she said smiling.

He looked up at her and she finally saw his face. She couldn't help but notice it was quite a face, a face framed by thick dark hair he now swept out of his eyes. It was such a face in fact, that if he'd paid to get his ancestry results online, the report would've indicated 96% Adonis, and 4% allegedly Native American—the latter of which people seemed to love taking pride in, without actually concerning themselves with the struggles of Native Americans.

What was behind this mysterious face? Did he care about the plight of others? Neela reminded herself that it wasn't any of her business to care. She was simply observing a handsome face, just as any woman with eyes, loins and a beating heart would do if in her place.

The man took the bag from Neela and managed a weak smile. "Thank you very much," he said, having switched to English once he detected her North American accent.

"Of course," she said kindly.

"I truly mean it," he said. "Paris can be a cold place sometimes, and yet you had no problem gathering papers from the dirty floor."

She smiled. "It was nothing." She watched as he stood up and groaned. "Do you need me to call you an ambulance?" she added, studying him with genuine concern.

He laughed. "No no, it is just a little bit...embarrassing."

She didn't seem convinced. "Are you sure you're okay? Because sometimes when you're in shock, you don't even realize you're gushing out a liter of blood until like twenty minutes later."

The matter-of-fact weirdness that was normal to Neela had stunned this man into silence. So she continued, as one does. "Even if there isn't any blood loss, there is definitely dirt on your pants now." She pointed to his knees. "Which is not a good look for Hugo Boss, like just as an F.Y.I for any future stumbles you may have." She shrugged. "But anyway...you're a hundred percent sure that you're okay? Because I don't want to be that jerk who didn't help you when you should've had emergency surgery."

He smiled. "You are not that jerk, and you have given me some useful medical advice."

"So you're good then? I can leave you?"

"Yes, I am good." His stare lingered. "But that does not mean you should leave me."

She laughed. And then started to blush. And then shook her head. No siree, she thought. Not today, Satan. The only word she managed to utter aloud was: "Mannn..."

"What is it?" he asked with genuine confusion.

"It's just...it's been a long time since anyone's..." She shifted uncomfortably and checked her watch. "What I mean is... you have a lot of confidence for someone who just fell down the stairs. Like now that I know you're not hurt, that was really, really embarrassing for you."

The subtle dig made her instantly more comfortable. Now he'd have no choice but to be turned off and she could happily go on her way.

To her surprise though, he continued to smile.

Rather than having a disarming effect, his smile made her back away.

"Welp...." she said awkwardly, heading for the turnstiles, "it was nice meeting you!"

He immediately followed. "It's Saint Laurent by the way!" he called out.

"Huh?" she mumbled, as she tapped her métro card and passed through. She turned back looking confused.

"My suit," he said gesturing to his impressive frame. "The designer is not Hugo Boss, it's Saint Laurent."

She smirked. "So you're a model then?"

"That is a flattering statement," he replied, his eyes all gooey. This gooey-eyed expression distracted him from the simple act of passing through the turnstile. And so he stumbled again.

She tried not to laugh as he did his best to recover. "So I'm guessing you're not a model then? Because models should at least know how to walk."

"I am not." He stood tall and smiled. "So..." Despite his second embarrassment, his flirty confidence was fully in the driver's seat.

"Uhh...so what?" she said, impervious to the French charm that was usually her kryptonite.

"Where are you headed on this spectacular evening?"

She studied her immediate surroundings and frowned. "What's giving you the 'spectacular' vibe? All the concrete or the smell of pee?"

He laughed as commuters passed by.

"Speaking of which," she added, "I need to give my senses a break." Without another word she headed for the west-end platform.

He immediately followed. "Are you heading west?"

She stopped, turned, and pointed to the obvious west platform sign above her head. "Are you sure you don't have a head injury?"

Despite the low-key insult, he smiled. "Perhaps it is an injury, or perhaps it is simply the fact that...unseen forces can sometimes have a way of...clouding the common sense of the mind."

She shook her head in amazement. "Could you be more extra?" she muttered to herself.

His common sense remained clouded. "For a moment I even thought about..."

He stopped short of finishing the thought, which instantly made her curious. "You thought about what?"

"Well I...briefly considered if I should pretend that I am traveling west as well."

She smirked. "What stopped you?"

He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his trousers. "It reminded me of a murder podcast I listen to." He noticed her eyes widen and immediately shook his head. "No no, you misunderstand! I do not mean I was planning to murder you, because I am definitely not a murderer!" A few people passing by looked at him strangely but he ignored them. "The murder podcast just reminded me of why I would not do such a thing; you must believe me!"

He seemed terrified of what she'd say next, but now it was her turn to smile. "I wasn't freaked out by what you said. I was just surprised because...I listen to murder podcasts too."

He grinned. "They are intriguing are they not? And they help me with practicing my English."

She raised an eyebrow. "Then you must know a lot of interesting words."

He laughed, and in that moment, their eyes made a real connection. The feeling she got made her warm and fuzzy, but as soon as she sensed it she backed away. "Well in the spirit of you not being a psycho stalker, I'll go my way...you go yours."

She hurried toward the stairs without a second look.

He stood there helplessly. "But don't you think—"

"Bonne soirée!" she said cutting him off.

A second later she disappeared down the stairs, and just like that, it was over.

***

Neela navigated the platform in search of personal space.

She stopped when she was far enough away from all of the following: the tourists with the rowdy children, the homeless man sleeping on the chair, and the loved up teenage couple lost in each other's tonsils.

She checked the board for the upcoming train, but it was still five minutes away. "Ughh..." she groaned. She still had time to kill before her evening plans, but she certainly didn't want to spend her precious bonus minutes in the métro. Not when there was still a dreamy stroll to be taken by the Seine at dusk. She needed her dreamy stroll, and most of all, she needed to recover from the strange encounter she'd just had.

She sighed and pulled at the ruffled collar of her dress; she was frustrated and bothered and out of sorts.

"I feel your pain, the wait can be very boring!"

The man's familiar voice came from far away, and when she darted her eyes around she noticed him standing there, perched on the opposite platform with the looming train tracks between them.

The very same man who didn't know how to walk without stumbling all over himself.

Her ensuing smile was so instant and automatic it surprised her. "Hey," she said awkwardly.

He smiled back. "Hey."