It was one of those things where you could empathize with either side of the story, depending on the position you were in. Or had been in. The “one of those things” being: having your exposed foot stepped on in public or being the person to do the stepping. Everyone, at some point in their lives, has been on both sides of the equation. Today, Angela was on the side of being stepped on. And, in a fashion typical of the universe remarking “you should have stayed home,” it had been ages since the last time she had dared to go out. As in out out, like for a “la-di-da” reason as opposed to a must-get-more-groceries-from-just-down-the-block in order to survive reason. This was a quick reminder, as far as Angela was concerned, about why you should never, ever leave the house unless it was absolutely, positively necessary. No matter what the “home invasion” genre of movies tries to impart—which is the idea that shit can be terrible and horrifying anywhere, even (and sometimes especially) in your own home.

But Angela would take being tortured by an intruding stranger inside her apartment any day of the week over being tortured by an intruding stranger in public. Which is exactly what happened to her as she rode the metro toward Odéon, not really sure why, just drawn to it because the stop got into her head. Not the location, but the stop name itself. She was coming from the more banal Ségur area, which, while not as teeming with tourists, wasn’t really teeming with much of anything apart from residences. So yes, she had made the mistake of telling herself that she ought to go to a more “populated” area. “See the sights.” As though she hadn’t seen them all after eleven years of living in Paris. And yet, to someone on the outside looking in, they might take her occasional flicker of “faith in communing with the world around her” as a positive sign. A sign that she was still capable of bothering. Yet every time she did, it sent her back into her lair for at least a month. Such was the grace afforded to her by her profession as the head of graphic design for an “ethical” hair care company that didn’t notice if she came into the office or not. All they were interested in was her timely assignation and delivery of the necessary labels and promotional materials. Thus, she was that rare breed who could not only afford to be a shut-in, but to be one in a luxurious manner. Complete with a De’Longhi espresso machine that she counted as her most prized (and most used) possession.

And maybe she had hopped herself up on one too many espressos before leaving, therefore made herself even more prone to being hyper-aware of all the fuckery around her. Alas, the one thing that happened too quickly for her to be hyper-aware of was getting her big toe stepped on by some brown-haired woman wearing headphones, white shorts and a tailored black vest (featuring four decorative silver-tone buttons) with nothing underneath it. A “summer chic” look that confirmed to Angela that the woman was a bona fide Parisian and not a tourist. This should have endeared Angela more to her, but the woman was clearly feeling herself a little too much, which made her careless act less forgivable. Because, as far as Angela could tell, she was distracted by her own reflection in the window of the metro as she started to rise up and inch her way out of the four-seat area, not looking at what was right in front of her as she careened into the main aisle. Angela, situated in the seat closest to said aisle, thought she had moved far enough out of the way to avoid this woman falling right into her lap. But no, that wasn’t entirely the case as she felt, out of nowhere, the full weight of this woman’s body on her right big toe. And while, sure, the woman was an expected Parisian waif, even waifs can feel heavy when a single big toe is suddenly tasked with “upholding” them.

It was the nail of Angela’s big toe in particular that was forced against its will to bear the brunt of the waif’s mass, which was rounded out by high heels. Angela let out a faint cry of pain in response, but only a faint one. She was still the sort of person to show restraint in a public setting no matter how bad something hurt (physically or emotionally). Yet, despite her demure reaction, Angela was horrified to find that the waif wanted to make a “big thing” about it. Loudly apologizing and asking if Angela was okay. This, to her, was even more affronting than if she had just ignored what she had done altogether and walked away. In fact, that would have been preferable to calling all this attention to what she’d done. Making Angela’s injury, so to speak, all about her. As though she needed the rest of the train to know that she was a good person. The type of person who would never do such a thing maliciously. Because, in this life, it seems that people are still naïve enough to believe that “intent” (or lack thereof) makes all the difference. But regardless of intent, it doesn’t change the outcome, which, in this scenario, was to get a black and blue (with a dash of purple) toe. The waif wouldn’t see the final result of her “innocent” action though. All she would see was someone “rude” in Angela. Someone who could barely mutter a “ça va” to absolve her of her crime. And it was a crime. To be so clumsy, so cavalier.

Then again, Angela had never felt that way when she was the stepper in the permutation. And oh, how she had stepped on other people in her day. The metro was a veritable hotbed for such an act (in addition to being a hotbed for disease and disorder). Yet none of those images came flashing back to her in a flood as she sat there staring daggers at the waif who kept oozing her apologies. When would this apology end? Didn’t she have to get off at this stop? The doors were soon to close and she would miss it, thereby turning Angela into the guilty party for “making her” miss her stop because she was so busy saying she was sorry. Well, Angela wasn’t about to have that, so, in spite of her douleur, she popped up and ran toward the doors herself, exiting at Sèvres–Babylone even though she was still two stops away from Odéon. She was damned if she would let that waif continue spewing these saccharine assuagements onto her. Sèvres–Babylone would have to be just as good a place as any to “see the sights.” Maybe she would even hobble over to Odéon on her now bum toe. She was fairly certain the waif had been wearing some knockoff Louboutins (or maybe they were just YSL), hence the anvil-like feeling that came crashing down on her toe. Who the fuck wears red bottoms in the metro? Doing such a thing should signify that you don’t need to take the metro. Maybe she was one of those girls who wanted to live like common people, and in so doing left some common nerve damage in her wake.

Angela wished she could just brush this encounter off already, but it was impossible to when the after-effects of it would likely linger for at least another day. Deciding to collect herself in the nearby Square Boucicaut (which she always struggled not to see and hear as “bukkake”), she entered the space with a slight limp, so transfixed by the ugliness of her exposed orteil that she didn’t notice, ambling into her path, an elderly man who himself wasn’t looking up in his perennially hunched state. Inevitably, she trampled right onto him as she was about to enter the small park. And, because he was an old man, he actually exclaimed, “Sacré bleu!”

Shocked herself by the unexpected mow-down, Angela found that she was presently transforming into the effusive apologizer. And mere minutes after having despised the waif for doing the same to her. This was different though. This was an old man, someone far more fragile and in need of such excessive concern. Angela guessed him to be somewhere in his mid-seventies as she stared at his face for signs of lucidity. He stared back at her, a twinkle in his eye suddenly appearing to indicate he hadn’t lost his “spark” just yet. That is, the spark in his loins. The one that prompted him to say, “Tu peux te rattraper en me rejoignant au parc.” Angela would do no such thing.

The very thought of sitting next to this man in the Square Boucicaut only reminded her why she always avoided said square at all costs. And now, it wasn’t just because it was named after a capitalist-lover like Aristide Boucicaut, the founder of Le Bon Marché, but because it appeared only lechers frequented it. And with that realization, Angela was glad she trampled him. She was clearly his karma. Though she couldn’t quite say what the waif was her karma for, other than keeping to herself and trying to avoid humanity as much as possible. A business she would go about returning to as soon as she got home, which is where she decided to make her way back to immediately after this (literal) run-in. On foot. Or rather, on nine fully-functional toes.