At Ribeaucourt

[franceslievens]

An incarnation of a Cuban gentleman came down the stairs and stood on the platform, waiting for the underground train to arrive. He straightened his back and turned his head to look around. His pointy shoes were ready to dance the tango.

That was as far as the illusion could take me. No Havana cigar in his mouth. His slightly too small, light brown hat didn't really match his grey suit. But his flair was genuine, when he stepped on the train, just two minutes later.