Still wondering whether she was French or English, Chandler decided to take the plunge, and clumsily asked, "Pardon mademoiselle."

Monica looked perplexed and cut him off. "I'm sorry, I don't speak French very well."

With a surprised look on his face, Chandler laughed. "I'm the one who should be sorry ... I don't speak French either, I just assumed you were."

She smiled.

"I was going to ask if these guys were bothering you earlier?" he added.

"Oh, no, they didn't bother me, I mean just a little, they were talking really loud, they were shouting in fact. I couldn't read in peace, and when I asked to bring the volume down a bit, they were so rude. Frankly, I think they're wasted."

As she was talking, somehow both in a self-assured and an uncertain way, every so often tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, Chandler couldn't look away from her eyes, he decided he'd never seen such electrifying blue eyes before in his life. Bright and sparkling when a ray of sunshine would meet her face, yet calm and deep in the shade. They were everything, and nothing, all at once.

"Right," he answered, kicking himself mentally for not coming up with a better answer to keep the conversation going.

She looked at the back again, then turned to him. "What do you think they're going to do to them?"

"I'd say they're getting a fine, but I was on a train once and this drunk guy got kicked out. I really hope they'll wait until we're inside the Tunnel to drop them off, but maybe that's a little harsh."

"Only slightly." She smiled, picking up on his sarcasm.

There was then an awkward moment of silence, both not knowing whether they should keep talking or not. Monica glanced back down at her book, Chandler kept looking at her.

"What are you reading?" asked Chandler.

She held up the book so he could see the title.

"Oh, The Prophecy of Celestine. Isn't that some weird pseudo-religious bull..." He stopped realizing he was about to quip, and she definitely didn't know him well enough not to get offended by the remark. As he stopped talking, she looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to finish that sentence. "I mean, isn't that the spiritual best-seller—"

"Yes, it is." She smirked. "It's actually really good and profound, that is if you're not an elitist snob of course."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to insult you, I'm sure it's good," replied Chandler with a pleading look. Her face softened at his apology.

"And what are you reading, Mister Skeptismo?"

He couldn't help but chuckle. "You know, keeping up with the news around the globe and such," he said holding up the paper.

"That's Le Monde. I thought you didn't speak French."

"I—" He racked his brain for a good answer, then he sighed and gave up. "I was actually looking at the ads, and the caricatures." He could sense she was trying not to laugh. "Ok you win, that doesn't make me look good."

"No no … what were you listening to before then?" she asked, pointing to his headphones resting behind his neck.

He looked down at his Discman, hesitating. "You know what, on second thought, the newspaper makes me look just fine."

She scoffed. "Oh come on, you're no fun!" Seeing his slightly embarrassed face, she decided to go easier on him. "Look, I'm the one here reading a pseudo-religious, spiritual new age bullshit book."

A grin accompanied his nod. "I was listening to a recording of Annie," he said in a slightly lower voice.

"Oh, that's nice."

"I know you expected something more … manly."

"No, it's fine, I told you I wouldn't judge and I'm not judging." They both smiled, visibly more comfortable with each other's presence now.

As she returned to her book, Chandler was in an internal battle of his own, he didn't want the conversation to end, but didn't want to seem pushy either. Then, as the train entered the tunnel, he summoned the courage to ask her.

"Hey, I was wondering if I could sit with you? See, you have a better view on your side."

She laughed at his joke as he pointed to the darkness out of the window.

"Sure," she simply answered.

He settled facing her from the other side of the table seat.

"So, what's an American girl doing on a train trip from Paris to London?"

Pulp - Something Changed (1995)