Bonne Chance.

I didn’t think he’d fit, the man standing on the platform of the 23rd street stop of the 1 train. Physically of course he could. He was young and handsome and I even looked twice when I caught those big blue eyes looking back at me with a smile when I walked by. Who, me?

But it was what he was holding, after my numerous attempts to count, forty-eight, no, fifty-two balloons, that was going to cause the problem. They were gold and black and the strings that were wrapped around his arms were so long they touched the ground. I wondered what or who they were for. A woman, presumably (lucky girl) or an anniversary party or a birthday or a reception or maybe they were just for his apartment (new decorating idea?).

I heard the subway in the distance and pried my eyes away from him. It was late and when the train arrived, and after he managed to pull all of the balloons in behind him, we were the only two people in our car. What a funny thing it was to be sitting there across from a sea of black and gold as the train hurdled forward. We smiled at each other, and he acted casually as though he weren’t attached to what could qualify in most places as a small county fair.

In my head I thought of a million things to ask him, a million funny things to say, that would in the end, make him fall madly in love with me where he would ultimately, one day, buy me forty-eight, no, fifty-two balloons. This is Manhattan. Love and balloons and cute guys alone with you on the subway don’t happen to you all the time. In fact, I don’t think they happen at all.

"What are they for?" I asked, apparently forgetting the moment I opened my mouth all those funny and clever things...

"Oh. Ah. Une Livraison."

I think my look of confusion came across as clear as my poor attempt to flirt with him.

"Uhh, delivery?" he said, his French accent was think. He pulled a small map out of his back pocket and showed it to me and pointed. "La direction de Wall Street?"

I nodded to say that yes, Wall Street, delivery, I understand, and he smiled at me sheepishly. It became clear quickly that he couldn’t speak English any more than I could understand French. Damn. I cursed myself for taking Russian in high school and how the cute ones are always taken or gay or can’t….speak English(?), and how it always seems so impossible to meet a man who can communicate.

Just before we approached Houston Street where I began to collect my things and stand up, he spoke again.

"Un moment," he said, and unraveled in the time it took me to blink, a gold balloon from the labyrinth of strings on his arm (now fifty-one) and handed it to me. I stared back at him while other people started to file into the train and I felt my heart swell. A smile was all I managed before I had to jump through the doors before they closed.

As the train sped away I stood there holding the balloon and wanted to shout at it to come back (where is life’s rewind button when you need it?). For a split second I thought seriously about hailing a cab and taking it to Wall Street and not stopping until I found him. I’d learn French! I could take night classes, get books on tape! I love Paris! What I wouldn’t do for a pain au chocolat!

I thought the better of it, and realized (again) that timing in life (and love and balloons) is everything. As I got above ground and began walking I started to think that if I couldn’t work things out so that one day he and I would be together in a subway again then my name isn’t Classy Girl.

Which, of course, it isn’t.