Princess in a Train

this particular article isn't by me. it was published on a site that i often frequent and contribute to but was 'pulled from the shelf' due to it's content. i've decided to publish it on my site for that reason. the sensual tone of the author almost reminds me a bit of hemingway. that this tone was directed toward a nine-year old girl offended many at that site and may even offend you. it is here without apology for posterity.

I have just sat down in the train to Utrecht and its early and cold outside, but that is of no importance because a few seats away from me there is this lovely girl. She has blonde hair that dances on her shoulders and next to her is her girlfriend who wears her beautiful brown hair up and has that incredible light brown skin colour that I love so much. But this time, for some particular reason I don't prefer the brunette over the blonde. And that great, innocence that radiates from her face and lights up the entire carriage isn't merely a result of her young age. I am sure of it. She's 9 years old for God sake, maybe ten.

Of course there's a direct feeling of guilt for going out of my way to stare at a 9 year old girl, without her noticing it. In less then a tenth of a second I wonder whether possibly I a one of those really sick dudes that appear in the news so often these days.

'9 year old girl disappears, found in garbage dumpster behind her house?

One of those guys with an Ikea-do-it-yourself basement, young children in the floor, where normal people have a nice and shiny carpet, but no that's not it.

I wouldn't even go so far as to imply that my intensions are merely good, because just having intensions in this particular situation would be wrong. But I do have trouble keeping my eyes away from her and allow myself to enjoy her smile. Even now one can already see she's the kind of girl that can wear anything and still look good.

She wears a coloured raincoat with a cowl and those small strings. And as if she couldn't be more innocent, she falls asleep, supporting her head with her fist, the way one can only do when really tired. Her friend looks at me with suspicion. Perhaps I am overdoing it. And anyways, I feel like she can read every single word I write down.

Less then two meters away from me there's this 9 year old girl and I am writing four whole pages about her. What's wrong? They are accompanied by an older woman who I guess is the blonde girl's grandmother. Probably on their way to an amusement park or the zoo. My unnoticeable, spy-like methods do not seem to be working, since the friend is now watching my every move closely.

I stick out my tong to the small boy standing on the seat in front of me, who is wearing a tracksuit. He must be about 5 years old. He wears Nikes, long hair and a chain-bracelet.

He's horrible, but of course it isn't his fault that his parents made him to be a copy of Ozzy freakin' Osboune. He doesn't seem to mind however, while he sucks on the matching chain he wears around his little neck and with his chubby fingers points at cows while we pass him. And although I refuse to imply that I have any feelings for the beautiful little girl, I am sure that it isn't merely her beauty that makes me prefer her over the little Ozzy. To be honest it's mostly the knowledge that one day, (disregarding any possible, above mentioned horrible events) she will turn into this magnificent and unreasonably attractive 18 year old young woman. The undeniable prooof that I was a premature baby. About 10 years premature ;-)

The friend takes another disapproving look at me as if she wanted to say:

Why don't you just stick to what you're writing, that's sad enough as it is.

But for the young blonde princess, and my half of the world population, I hope she will always remain the way she is right now. Not only magical but also friendly, honest and not afraid to laugh; not afraid to be real. I banish the thought from my mind that just maybe, she is the early prototype of the girls that we, nowadays have to deal with.

Those girls that do posses a certain beauty, but cover their insecurities and fears with a thick layer of arrogance and rejection. I call it the red rose concept. A beautifully coloured red rose, fully blossoming, but with thornes that always stand up, knowing that when they prick everything that comes close, their beautifull flowers will never be damaged. Feelings aren't shown because of the fear of being hurt. A heart of stone is no easy victim of love.

Utrecht Central Station

I need to get off the train; this is my stop. If my train-subscription were valid on weekends, I would have probably not even gotten off here. Try and explain that to your friends:

I am sorry that I am late guys, but there was this really beautiful girl on my train and so I stayed in the train until Amsterdam and somehow ended up in the buss to the zoo, by the way do you know that the elephants there have...

No, that wasn't an option. Had she been 22 years old and had I talked to her or maybe even gotten her phone number then they would have understood, but now would they have asked for her age or length I would have surely gotten myself into trouble ;-)

And thus I got off and while I walk off the platform I want to turn my head and have just one more glance, but immediately understand that that would be the ultimate prove for her girlfriend that something is wrong. One behaves that way when one has been staring at a girl of one's own age. Or perhaps after eye contact with a very horney 35 year old woman, who, on purpose or not, moved her legs rather far apart when she noticed you'd been looking at her for the last five minutes. But none of that, the train to Utrecht offered me today and well, with a 9 year old girl things just are a whole lot different.

And so I do turn around just one more time and stare directly in the face of her girlfriend who's just checking to make sure that I am actually getting the fuck out of there.

I don't get to see the beautiful little blonde herself anymore and so I walk of the platform in to the hall where I eat a ciabatta and drink a good cup of cappuccino. Basically for the way it looks because frankly I find coffee disgusting. I smoke a few cigarettes and finish my story. Four pages about that little bit of beauty that has made sure that for the rest of the day I am in a great mood and have at least a bit more faith again. And although I must admit I, like all other had to learn to drink beer, I doubt I'll ever love coffee.

Paris2K / JE