But music has charms to soothe a savage beast

Nose buried in a book, I literally tripped out of the last wagon of that moment's line 12. To the annoyance of the herd behind me, I relished in the métro sin of taking my time to get my bearings, absorb my surroundings, and decide which exit would lead to my desired destination. As I stood pondering whether my bookshop inhabited the côté pair or impair of rue de Rivoli, I noticed another lackadaisical character assuming the same meditative stance. Dark curly hair, cropped close to his round head, and a striped button-down shirt involuntarily burned themselves an alibi into my memory. Turning on my heel, I made my way for the escalators.

As I rifled through my purse in search of lipstick, I suddenly noticed a hand holding the plastic hand-rail on my right. It wasn't rush hour and there weren't a million people bustling up the stairs in a rush, so the proximity of the body behind me seemed exagéré - I moved up a step. The hand to my right moved up along with me. A moment later, I felt a hand brush my lower back.

Stepping off the moving stairs onto solid cement, I turned my entire body to assess the impatient person with no sense of private space. It was the same loiterer I had perceived a minute before, only now his face showed something bordering on purpose and humor.

"C'est bon là, vous avez assez de place?" I sarcastically inquired of the short, stocky, 40-ish man who was now walking closely beside me, keeping my pace and testing my ability to remain coldly composed.

"Oh oui," he replied, still smiling, as if my intentions were actually the assurance of his comfort.

I could feel my inner urban bitch rising to greet the underworld elf. As he attempted to announce something regarding the area of my body at which he was staring intently, I stopped walking and, with not a little shrillness demanded, "Je peux vous aider?"

Continuing to babble some nonsense inaudibly, all the while smiling moronically, he made a feeble effort to reach his stubby arm out to mine.

"Ca suffit - laissez-moi tranquille."

Et basta.

Thrusting my shoulders back in exaggeratedly good posture and swinging my purse dramatically behind my shoulder, I strode calmly but determinedly toward my exit- alone. Rising out of the bouche de métro, I shook my head and laughingly wondered when the day would arrive where I would be harassed by a Brad Pitt look-a-like.

Two years ago, this story would have unfurled in an entirely different manner. The most likely scenario would have me trying to be nice and maladroitly indicating a lack of time to spare, or perhaps even having the wherewithal to renvoyer ballader l'emmerdeur, but feeling terribly mean, snotty, or guilty about it.

Somewhere between now and then, it dawned on me that I don't owe any kindness or conversation to people who insinuate themselves selfishly into my personal space. And I believe that I have Paris to thank for that. Thanks, Paris! Without the daily assaults on my peace, particularly while patronizing your fair public transportation vessels, my blunt and aggressive potential would have wilted, unrealized and immature, like a Beaujolais Nouveau 2002.

Exiting W.H. Smith one half hour later, I brandished my new Joyce Carol Oates collection of short stories like a shield. Indeed, let none doubt the fury of a woman scorned.