I'd stared at him for almost a year, doing nothing.

I'd watched him reading, writing, drawing. I'd heard that charming French accent chatter on and on to unknowns at the other end of his cell phone. I'd noticed how he always slipped a lick of French into the sentence he was constructing, whether to his phone or to himself or to a passenger riding next to him. Usually it was something like "cheri" or "amour" or anything else relating to the subject of love. He seemed to be a bit of a romantic.

Perfect. Just the type of person I hate and simultaneously have a crush on.

Anyways, last Tuesday, I discovered something about him, the first and last thing I would ever discover about Francis Bonnefoy. That day was the day I discovered his name.

The tube was empty of his presence this morning, at least until a shoe and the French man himself came flying through the doors.

Yes, a shoe.

So, as the door was closing, he ran in with the shoe flying behind him like the ribbons on a tail of a kite. The shoe wasn't the only thing that followed him on, though.

"Francis Bonnefoy!" A man's, presumably angry, scream traveled with him. He'd made it on just as the doors closed, with a proud, almost smug grin on his face.

I smiled, now knowing his name.

Francis.

Naturally, he'd caught the attention of all riding. Stares were produced from all standing and sitting, and the red sneaker lay on the ground.

And at that moment, I noticed something.

His shirt was only half-buttoned.

And I naturally put the pieces together. The man who'd screamed after him must have been his boyfriend, and most likely for whatever reason, now his ex-boyfriend.

Even as I was coming to such a realization, eyes stayed on Francis who was still standing there next to the shoe. He leant down and picked it up, then smiled (God, his smile!) good-naturedly.

"Trouble with l'amour, you all must understand. I don't suspect this one will be calling back." He then winked, most likely at nobody in particular, but I like to imagine it was at me.

He then sat down and nothing more was stared to him or said to him, not that anybody had said anything to begin with. I honestly don't think anybody would, as he somehow carried an air of natural prince-like charisma with him at all times. I wish I had talent in social situations like that, but alas, all I have as lowly Arthur Kirkland is a sharp tongue and a cowlick that I have never been able to rid myself of

All day at work I couldn't stop thinking about him. It's funny how such a small thing that happens daily can control you. His hair, smile, wink, eyes. . . All of him was perfect.

On the way home, staring at him, I made a choice. Tomorrow, I will sit next to him. Tomorrow. Tomorrow.

That night, I rehearsed down to the very last detail how I would speak to him and get him to notice me. I would introduce myself and then ask him about the shoe and the reason for it flying at his head, but give him plenty of room to say that he didn't want to tell me. I imagined cajoling him into giving me his number, and then I would call, and we would go out for coffee. Then I imagined us getting married. I smiled as I fell asleep. My life with Francis Bonnefoy would begin tomorrow.

Too bad that the day after I decided to sit next to him he was found dead, presumably murdered by his boyfriend.

Funny the way things turn out, huh?