Cute London Guy

Train from Barcelona. Dad on my left, window on my right. A couple made out of a fat ex-sportsman and a lady (either a PR person or a PR person).

15438192ddOn the other side of the corridor, an accent catches my ear. My dad is staring into his sunglasses. I whisper to him (in my dear native Romanian): British or American?

He understands and looks slightly to his left, to the family sitting there. He turns to me and says: American.

“No, they’re no!. Listen to how they pronounce the vowels, no American prolongs anything that much.”

He was teasing me. Again. If I had need of a large-sized Anderson, I would have ordered one on Ebay.

The process went very fast. Simple clothing, pretty cheap. The father had a rather nice watch, but it was no Rolex. His shoes were dirty and worn, covered with the dust of Barcelona. One month old T-shirt, worn trousers.

The mother wore a cheap top and, since her bra-straps were visible, I doubt that she gave much interest to her apparel. She had a good phone, but an old model. My guess was on a Samsung, but it wasn’t a smartphone. Common clothes, cheap jewelry. Tight on the purse with her own stuff.

Yes, stealing glances. Great work, Sophie…

The boy. Large T-shirt, too large for him, obvious borrow from an older brother. Worn shoes, but he had sculpted legs, so a jogger. Skinny arms, so not a serious sportive. He kept his bag under the seat and it got really dirty, so bets on him not having paid much on it. No sentimental value. Brother again. Must have left for University in America recently. Sentiment is taken out of the question, but he was rather cute.

What I deduce from the lot? Mainly, average wealth, stay-at-home mom, kid in his final years of school. The noise of the train covers their words, but the woman gets annoyed at some point and her voice confirms it all. British.

The guy is cute, looks like a serious one. He has long fingers, possible guitarist, though pianist is not out of the talk (too far away to be sure) and obvious gamer. He sits a bit weird and that’s how I saw guys sit when they’re really into the game. Console gamer, also.

The train stops, the bag-frenzy erupts and we descend. The British are behind us. I grab my suitcase and, because the line at the rolling-stairs is too damn long, I heave my T-shirts, dresses and salamanders with magnets and take the stairs. As I reach the top, I notice the cute-British-guy doing the same. Talk about coincidence.

I wait for my family and the British take the lead. As we drag the trollers, deductions swarm again. This time, it’s the long plastic bag that’s stuck in cute-British-guy’s bag. I know the brand, since I’ve been in that shop twice in Barcelona and I loved it. A poster shop. Movie posters. And it was a big container. Most likely three posters, at least one with Assassin’s Creed. I have to slow down (again) and the British disappear into the crowd.

As we reach the check-in, a line forms at my airline’s entry, so I take a walk around and check all of the day’s flights. There’s mine in 2 hours then one for Moscow, another for Ireland, another for somewhere way away and then…. Flights to England.

One flight in 2 and a half hours with Monarch and another with British Airways.

They had come at the same time with me and they had enough bags and a mother stressed out enough to mean that they did what we did. Came 2 hours early. Those two flights had to be their flights. Both went to Heathrow.

That was not a family to take Monarch. It’s not rocket science. It’s all in the watch. Rolex is more than a brand. It’s a status symbol. It says I’m a banker and I win a trillion pounds more than you do, so leave my sight, peasant, before my watch blinds you. The father’s watch wasn’t expensive. Their phones weren’t expensive. What they wore was common. Flying with Monarch isn’t common. The people in line there were all business men, with suits and black suitcases.

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Clearing away the impossible, the family had to take the flight to London with British Airways, at 19:45. They shall then take the train back to a region somewhere close to Bath.

When they went past us and past the Monarch line and stopped at BA’s check-in entry, I had something to enjoy while listening to some idiots chattering on how bad Spanish food was and on how much they missed the Romanian beaches. The fact that they also had kids made it even worse.

It was a looooooooooooooooooong flight.

And re-reading this, I can just pray that the family doesn’t discover this (by the way, there was also a sister), because then it would look ridiculously awkward. First-world stalker problems. Welcome to deduction!

*Sorry for disappearing. Again. No, Moffat let me be this time. However, his best friend, Fluxus Coldynium thought that my throat needed an extra baritone chord and so, while struggling with fever and helping my family organize a huge meal-giveaway, to commemorate 6 months from my grandfather’s death, my wonderful ears and beloved vocal chords decided to help me out and hurt like hell. Still does.

Be thankful, I guess. For now, my eyes are back in shape and I’m back writing. Have fun, beloved.


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