As the girl behind me jumped between the closing doors with a tiny yelp of success her slip of a shoe fell behind, lost to the enemy gates closing with their familiar whoomph…
She let me take a photo of her mismatched feet. This was either a sign of her confused and frightened state or yet another person seeking their 15 minutes through any channel possible.
At the next stop she got off in order to go back one stop and hopefully find her shoe (or ballet pump, as Vogue would have us described the daily footwear of city professionals).
We joked briefly about the idea that her Prince had found the shoe and was waiting to be reunited with both its left compatriot and his true – if slightly frazzled – love. She was less convinced than I, but then I wasn’t going to test the theory. Too often romance is best left to the imagination, since real life is stuttery at best and icky at usual.
I believe to this day that this girl had simply travelled enough tubes to have eventually found her Prince, because fairy tales – somewhere along the industrialised way – must become urban myth.