The day her heart restarted

Narrate the birth of a romantic feeling by writing a literary short story with a maximum length of 6000 characters including spaces. For the purpose of assimilating the fundamentals of the genre, incorporate the conventions of sentimental literature presented in this course."

Louise grabbed her bag from the back of the chair, rushed down the stairs. If she missed the 6:23 train, she'd be late. On her first day, that was unthinkable. She walked briskly, disappeared into the warmth of an impersonal corridor, and got swallowed up like other still-sleepy commuters. She chose a fold-down seat. The seated passengers were in a mood without mood. Louise was on edge. She hadn't taken the RER in twenty years. She had forgotten herself, lived in Martin's shadow until the day the shadow left, taking the neighbor, the couch, and the hope of growing old together. At forty-nine, she resumed the path to work. Twenty-one minutes of travel. She crossed her legs, picked up her phone, and pretended indifference.

Archères Grand Cormier station. A draft of air, the nagging announcement of the closing doors, and a pair of jeans, green canvas sneakers, appeared in her field of vision. The shoelaces were undone. The bottom of one pants leg was trapped by a sock. Louise, curious, followed the thread of the jeans. They were too big, hanging on the hips, revealing the slightly stretched Calvin Klein waistband. Hands gripping the high bar, the body stretched like a cat that's stretching, the visible lines where the groin meets the thigh felt like a slap to her. Troubled, she couldn't look away. Such virility emanating from a simple curve. A sculpture of a love from the past. She almost missed her stop, jumped up, tore herself away from her memories with difficulty. The intoxicating blend of Eau Sauvage and nicotine still tickled her nose as she walked on the esplanade. A heart was pounding in her chest. She had almost forgotten it.

Louise had slept poorly. This first day had gone well, though. She had met Nora, Sergio, and the gentle Nadège. Mop in hand, she had revisited her life and hadn't shed a tear. While putting the red bucket at the back of the closet, she even promised herself to try to be happy again.

There were fewer people this morning. Louise leaned against the window next to an ageless lady. The seat opposite was empty, and she imagined someone was waiting for it. She wore a skirt. A little short when she sat, Louise thought. She felt nervous, impatiently swiping through the images on her phone's screen. The screeching of brakes followed by a ballet of bodies pulled her out of her boredom. A pair of jeans apologized, a knee brushed against her, a young man dropped into the vacant seat. The green sneaker almost crushed her red-painted toes. Louise's heart stopped. For a few seconds. It defied explanation. She regained her composure and ventured to examine the curve of the knees facing her. They were so close. If only he knew that, despite the years, her skin had remained soft. Martin used to tell her how much it drove him crazy.

Louise's gaze nervously continued its progression and stopped at a hand with strong fingers and prominent veins. A broad and firm hand. It lay docile on the right knee. But the hand now moved, leaned, rummaged in a bag thrown on the floor, was rough, made back and forth movements, and couldn't find what it was looking for. The hand was one caress away from her leg. Louise felt her chest rise, her breathing quicken. The movement stopped. Brown curls straightened, hair tangled as if returning from a long journey. Louise dared not explore further. The arm returned to its place. The thumb played lightly with the button of a pen, click-clack, click. Clack. This insolent nonchalance unsettled her, and this innocence made her lose her senses. Where had the years gone?

Louise's body seemed to have fought all night. She was exhausted this morning. She remembered running on a slippery, sometimes sticky road, from which her bare feet could not escape. She was pursued, and despite her frenzied run and titanic efforts, she ended up buried. Probably under the weight of memories or the forgetfulness of living. Maybe both.

With some apprehension, Louise returned to the RER station. She hesitated. The young boy could be there. Or not. He could sit next to her. Or not. It would be a sign. That it was just a dream, an enchanted parenthesis. But if he came, shaking up the loneliness of her mornings, giving life to her desires. Then, she would have to look up. She knew it was not rational. No matter. The train, like an adversary, emerged from the tunnel and stopped in front of the yellow line on the ground. She slipped through, looking for two vacant seats. She felt like she might die if he didn't come. The next station was announced. The train stopped. The platform seemed deserted. The doors remained closed. It was impossible. She imagined him running, tripping over an untied shoelace, catching up with fate at last. But the piercing sound of the departure signal eventually blurred the images. Happiness had decided to look elsewhere. Louise stared vacantly into space. Her muscles relaxed, her shoulders slumped. All that remained was her aged body, her broken heart, scattered pieces on the dark linoleum.

La Défense. The sky was low, the city stretched out, hurried footsteps crossed each other without seeing. Louise pushed the wide revolving door of Building B with a resigned hand, stopped to adjust her badge. Louise B. Cleaning technician. The cafeteria wall displayed the schedule on a large whiteboard; she saw that she was working with Sergio today. Offices on the second floor. The man with graying temples wore white sneakers, had a soft, almond-shaped gaze. He timidly invited her to walk together, elevator or stairs?