The beauty of cliche

She boarded the train in Paris, Bercy, bound for Clermont-Ferrand, taking the last seat.

Immediately, she removed her iPhone from a red imitation leather knock-off Hermes handbag and checked for messages.

The sequins of her Hard Rock Cafe t-shirt screamed 'cliche cliche' in the mid-morning light, as did the Prada sunglasses.

He, seated opposite her in such close proximity that their knees sometimes touched, hadn't yet had his coffee.

The French countryside passed by sleepily. She spent it texting, reading a magazine, texting, checking her email, texting, with the insular quietness of the self-absorbed.

Finally in Moulins, the train's burser came to collect tickets.

She had none, of course, reaching into her deep red leather bag as if she knew right where it was, seeming surprised that it was not there, shrugging her shoulders as the young male burser waited patiently. Finally she extracted a gold American Express from her bag, paid for the ticket and exited the train at Moulins.

He, her fellow passenger, remained on the train, for he'd bought a ticket to Clermont-Ferrand. Stretching his legs out into the space which she'd once occupied, he wondered if she was the cliche he thought her to be or if his thinking about her in this light was the actual cliche.