Govinda was sitting on a train. It was trapped under the Channel.
'****ing Eurostar,' she muttered.
The hours went by. The air conditioning died. Somewhere, she knew that there was a TFF ball happening; somewhere she had planned to attend. She thought about it for a second, eyes straining to see her face reflected in the window in the Eurostar's particular grey-yellow light. Her eyes looked dull, and her skin looked jaundiced. Somewhere further down the carriage a child had discovered a first aid kit and the gels held therein. Govinda sighed.
'****ing English,' she muttered.
A man walked by exclaiming things in three languages; his tone was vibrant, his steps strong and full of direction. He sounded French. Govinda could tell that he was all for getting the **** off this dead train. Some old English started muttering to themselves about this stupid impatient Frenchman, preparing an argument. The man came to Govinda's seat.
She stood up. 'On y va?' she asked, tilting her head to the side. The man grinned in response.
'On y va!'
(*On y va means 'we going or what?')
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