My first reaction as he takes the bags from me and touches my arm, is to fling him off, but years of being polite and soft spoken kick in and I stop. Anyone could see he was only trying to be helpful. I immediately restrain that response, hoping he doesn’t think I’m some stuck up American, looking down my nose at the locals.
I hated the idea that I might unnecessarily insult the guy. He could have left me to my own devices. Besides, it was broad daylight, the place was full of people and he was going to the Underground, too. He was nice enough, and I wanted to enjoy my vacation. I returned his smile and followed his lead.
““Oh! Well, thanks!” I tried to keep my voice cheerful. I could kill two birds with one stone—interacting with a ‘real’ Londoner, and simultaneously indulge a silly little fantasy. The thought of meeting a guy, engaging in a little harmless flirting, perhaps boldly inviting him for a drink made my insides warm. Nobody would ever think I would have the courage to do something like that. But it didn’t stop me from imagining him as the object of my fantasy. Where was the harm?
Once we boarded the Underground, I’d likely never see this guy again and in a few days, I’d be on my way to Paris, reliving the ‘fantasy’ with a Parisian. I had the mad urge to giggle at the thought. Instead, I allowed my mind to drift, paying little attention to my surroundings, happy enough with my purchases and a pleasant escort to the station.
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