As they stood to gather their things, Cosima noticed the blonde's willowy frame, long, slender arms and legs. She couldn't pull her eyes from the black lace bra underneath a billowing white blouse and jeans, snug in all the right places. She tried not to stare, looking surreptitiously from the side as she gathered her bags.
The French woman, for her part, was taken with the small woman's dreads as she leaned over, how they hung around her shoulders and swayed a little at first, and then all at once, as if their collective momentum hurled them on. But she also noticed the lean muscles of the small woman's arms, exposed through a structured tank top of fractals over billowy, burgundy trousers. Everything about her hinted at strength. She couldn't quite make sense of the spark she felt, but she knew she wanted to know more about this little American.
They sat at a table, immediately attended by a waiter. Cosima called for an iced coffee, black, the other woman, a café au lait. They shared a quick glance, an easy laugh.
"It is so nice to meet a friend on the train! These trips can be so long and tedious," she mentioned with a wave of her hand, settling it on the table.
"Why didn't you stop me?" Cosima said abruptly, "Surely I sounded … full of myself or completely stupid …. I'm sorry I presumed someone like …" she trailed off, stopping short, unsure how she'd been perceived, what false assumptions she'd made.
"Non! No. You were wonderful," she stopped, slightly blushing, "it was a very intriguing overview. I didn't realize manipulated prions were being considered as a treatment for dementia. This is, of course, very interesting to me. Wait, someone like?" Eyebrows knit slightly in confusion, a little nervous. "What am I like?"
Cosima's eyes widened, startled, waving her hands, touching the blonde's hands lightly, "Oh, no, no, I didn't mean that in a bad way. I mean, you're … you're beautiful, and French." Her hands waved from the woman's curls, downward. "Like, how could you also be into … prion diseases? That's too perfect. The universe doesn't just create beautiful, French scientists, especially ones with such adorably bad jokes." Cosima leaned forward, lightly grasping the doctor's hand and squeezing, her gaze all grinning teeth.
This flirtation felt so easy, so natural, the blonde thought. She blushed slightly and laughed, small and low, warmth spreading to her fingertips as she brushed those of this small woman. As she looked down she glimpsed indigo and black ink.
"Ohhhhh," she gasped, "this design, on your wrist."
She turned Cosima's hand over, taking control, Cosima gazing at her with an open, befuddled smile. The French woman traced the nautilus tattoo along Cosima's wrist with her finger, sending a shiver through the smaller girl, "this is beautiful. Is this, Fibonacci's spiral? Is this the Golden Ratio?"
Cosima fully grasped the woman's hand, urging their gazes to meet before she spoke.
"No one has ever guessed that before." She searched the woman's face, finding an open, curious expression. "But yes, that is it, exactly."
"It's beautiful, non, this symmetry?"
"Exactly! It's sacred geometry. This," she gestures to the ink on her wrist, "reminds me that the logical can be whimsical, that, that, nature can … swirl," demonstrating with a twirl of the fingers of her free hand.
She looked at the brunette softly, pulling a full lip between ivory teeth, her hand still laid across Cosima's other wrist. "That is lovely, mon amie."
Cosima stopped for a beat, distracted, trying to ground herself. "Soooo, Frontiers in Immunology, I feel like maybe you should tell me about that …?"
"Ah, oui, um, well," pulled out of her reverie. "I have just finished my medical degree and am starting the portion of my studies for an immunology specialty. I am at Université Pierre et Marie Curie, or UPMC, in Paris. That's where I'm heading now."
"Wow. Smarty pants. That's part of the Sorbonne, isn't it?" Eyebrows raised, grinning as she noted the blonde's small nod. "But … you don't seem so … excited. You must be, what, 25 … 27? How are you finished with your M.D. already!?"
"That's why I am here. Why I was in Valencia. I am between two ideas – torn – of serving versus ambition and, what's the term, "making my mark"?
Cosima nods, urging her on.
"I was here to visit my grand-mére, my grandmother. She has always been my strength," she says, unconsciously pulling her long fingers to her heart. "She gave me comfort when I was sad, basically saved me with her letters when I was at boarding school … I have been trying to decide what to do. My father wants me to follow a specialty, it supplies a better living and stability, but I want to go where the needs are greatest. Like she did."
She looked off wistfully through the window, the fog and juniper blurring in a smear of green and grey. Pausing a long moment. Too long, she realizes.
"Mm, well, my grand-mére was a journalist before the war, turned spy during the occupation of France. She worked with the Canadians – though" - she stopped, looking at the small, cheeky American by her side and raised a brow - "she was always particularly fond of an American OSS agent, her contact over the radio in the early days." Why did she mention it? It was as though she was giving herself permission to like this woman. She also knew her grandmother would love her, would find her idioms and turns of phrase charming.
"But my grand-mére and grand-pére – they went on these dramatic, dangerous missions against the Nazis. They'd take your breath away to hear them: blowing up trains, freeing sex slaves, sneaking survivors past enemy lines. Easily mythologized by a child, but even now she is a legend to me. Some people deserve to be myths. Anyway." The blonde looked up slightly, seeing warm hazel eyes urging her on, she continued. "I trust my grandmother's advice implicitly. She always talks about helping those who have less power than ourselves, being part of something greater. Speaking to her always reminds me, not of ambition, but the desire to be useful, to do something meaningful."
Seeing Cosima's awed expression, she said, "Oh, I'm so sorry. Wow. I have just been speaking of these things with her for the past week, and I find myself ... fixating, introspective?"
Cosima, now undeniably smitten, and barely able to speak, reached across the small table again and brushed her thumb over her delicate hand, "Please, this is the best story I've heard in ages, if you would like, tell me more."
Smiling softly, she nodded and continued, "Well, so I am about to start this specialty for immunology. I'm interested in innovative gene therapy, virology. I'm particularly interested in CRISPR, do you know it?"
"No, dude, that's complex. Yes I have heard of it," Cosima said, tone and expression turning serious, pulling her hand away, the gesture proving more dramatic than she intended, "but that's a can of worms. It's an amazing discovery, an astonishing technique, but it comes with a lot of bioethics baggage, don't you think."
"Oh, mm, yes, you are referring to the implications for genetic engineering, yes?" Cosima nodded, the blonde waved as if sweeping away the concern, "but the science isn't there yet. But we can target specific genes in bacteria, viruses, autoimmune disorders, and simply erase them, make them self-destruct. Poof! It opens up this whole world of individualized gene therapy."
"Yes, but," Cosima tilted her head, skeptically, "the science is nearly there for a host of eugenical experiments." Cosima's hands became animated, giving weight to her concern. "China has already been toying with designer embryos using CRISPR. I mean, welcome to the trip, man, this is like Gattaca-level shit."
"Mmm, I think that is …" shortsighted, she might say, conspiracy theory, ludicrous, but she didn't want to argue, to offend this charming girl. "Well, I am often more taken in by the implications for eradicating disease, genetic predisposition." Her tone deflated, "but there are ethical concerns, c'est vrai." She dipped her head, eyes downcast, not sure where to go after such passion and opposition from the small brunette.
Cosima immediately recognized the effect she had, ashamed. This woman had just opened up to her, and her first response was to shoot her down. Dammit, Cosima.
"Oh, like, I'm a total asshole. I'm so sorry. I just, I get sort of passionate about these things, but, totally, this approach could kick cancer's ass, all manner of autoimmune diseases. I am with you. Like we should USE it, right? It's a fascinating field, an amazing advancement, really important."
"Merci …" her voice small, "But, the reason I am torn, the reason this is hard to reconcile has nothing to do with that, it is, well, I also love clinical work. The satisfaction of seeing a patient, solving the question before you, being part of something tangible." She touched her thumb to her fingers then rubbed her fingers down to her palm in emphasis.
"My grand-mére, she always said that fear and ignorance shape conflict, give flight to the worst parts of ourselves. But if, instead, you extend a hand, demonstrate there is nothing to fear, that we are all the same, you can change the conversation. She talked of acts of kindness, in treating everyone you meet with respect, as a kind of … um … transgressive act? That's what I could do. Healing as a transgressive act, to show and prove to others that we can change the conversation." She stopped for a beat, looking up, slightly abashed, expecting reproach, skepticism. She was met only by Cosima's steady gaze, open, almost tearful. "I'm sorry, I must sound so idealistic, foolish."
"No, absolutely not. You are incredible. Such a small word for … such a person." The words had slipped out before she had a chance to self-edit. Slightly embarrassed.
"Mmm, mon amie, you are too kind." Not lingering on the warmth she saw in the brunette's eyes. "But the thing is: the big question before me: I have been invited to join Médecins san Frontièrs, MSF, you know it?" She asks.
Cosima nods, seriously, "Yes, of course."
"Well, I think of their work as particularly transgressive, if you will, in situations like they face in the DRC, in the West Bank, still on the Burmese border, so many places. I want to be part of it. I think I could be useful, but of course I am worried I may not do well under pressure, perhaps I will not be okay without the comforts of home, perhaps I will fail? But I also think that if I don't follow this call, that I will regret it. I had to ask my grandmother's advice. Only she could tell me what path to take," she finished with a sigh. A closed off sound that indicated the issue was not up for further discussion.
"Set you straight, your grandmother was the only one who could set you straight."
"Oui, that sounds right. Except this time she didn't. She said both paths were valid, were meaningful, it was for me to choose what in my heart felt right."
"Hard to recover from such an introspective trip, right? You are still deciding, I take it?"
"Exactement."
A series of announcements came over the speaker, in Spanish, followed by French, English, German, announcing the next stop: Barcelona, 5 minutes.
Their eyes locked, a mixture of panic, sadness, expectation flickering across Cosima's face.
"Oh, god, crap, I, um, I have to get off here. I'm catching a plane tomorrow back to the States. You, you … I know you are going back to Paris but … you should get off with me here. I can't imagine finishing this conversation now," Cosima's gaze searching, her tone pleading.
The French woman looked back, not answering, eyes wide, a bewildered look on her face.
"Um, think of it this way, maybe this moment right here is just a memory, a memory of an old woman who is looking back on her life, tracing those moments, those watershed moments where a different choice would have re-shaped her future, and she is looking back to this moment now, and thinking what might have been if she'd gotten off the train with this random American and wandered Barcelona aimlessly for a night? This is your opportunity to retrace, instead take a branch into an alternate universe." She was talking fast, rambling earnestly, wondering how to sway the woman. "And couldn't we all use a good lapse in judgment every now and then?"
She looked deeply into Cosima's eyes, searching, finding only mirth and a spark of mischief.
"Oui," shaking her head slightly. "I can't believe this, but yes."
They grabbed their bags quickly, shuffling amongst the other passengers, trading sidelong glances as they jumped to the platform when the train stuttered to a stop.
"Um, I don't think we actually met. I'm Cosima," she said, extending her hand, looking up into the blonde's open gaze, smiling widely.
She accepted it tenderly, running her free hand through wild curls and cocking her head to the side, "Delphine. Enchantée."
"Enchantée."