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# A Missed Chance
- URL: https://www.lejournaldeminuit.com/a-missed-chance/
- Published: 2026-09-06T14:06:56.000Z
- Updated: 2026-10-05T04:56:39.000Z
- Author: emeric le hors
- Tags: Pieces in English

I had held her hand longer than manners allow for two strangers who have just met and part ways with a handshake. As soon as the woman walked back out to the city streets, away from the stand I worked at in one of Paris’s covered passages, I sighed. *I should have asked for her phone number.* Yes, she had left, but when she slipped her hand out of mine, I had felt no rush in her farewell.

I'm a young man in Paris who sells prints and old books in one of the city’s covered passages. Whether I sell a lot or a little, my daily earnings are the same. So when I get weary of my duties, I can strike up a conversation with a passing stranger, just for the pleasure of it.

It’s strange, these forces that make you guess before you know, because when this woman walked into the passage for the first time and passed me by, I thought *I'm sure I'd get along with her.*  it’s a hunch, a feeling that rarely deceives

That is why, while she was standing by the shop opposite mine checking out postcards, I went up to her, and with the familiarity of an old friend, I said, "You'd be perfect to play a fortune teller."

The girl had bright blue eyes, slightly tanned skin, and dark, straight hair. Her beauty was that of the bohemian women you hear tales about—the kind of stories where a man, previously grave and steady, loses his head and burns with a fire some call love.

The woman's piercing eyes gave me the feeling she could read right through me. As she looked at me with a smile, I could picture her holding my hand, tracing one of her fingers along my palm: *"I predict great success for you, young man, but only if you abide by the laws of life."*

My opener had started the conversation. I sold books, so that was what we first talked about. The girl was an avid reader of Alexandre Dumas. Just like me, she had spent hours with the Musketeers, fighting for love and glory, or in a prison cell at the Château d'If where the Abbé Faria taught a young Dantès science, languages, and history, and gave the young man the realization that he was the victim of a conspiracy.

I talked about *The Tower of Nesle*, which I had read but she had not. She talked about *La Reine Margot*, which she had read but I had not—different stories, but both weaving together passion and the desire for power.

Time ran out, and it would soon strike seven. I was supposed to be packing up my stand, but I was focused on talking to the woman I had just met.

The conversation never got too personal, but sometimes I'd stumble over my words as my eyes lingered on her lips or her skin, thinking of the thrill I'd get if I were to kiss her.

"I don't want to distract you any longer from your duties," she said with a smile as we walked toward the end of the glass-covered hallway, where the passage met the street. We shook hands. *Should I ask for her number?* I hesitated. Too late—she was gone.

*She said she'd be on the Sacré-Cœur forecourt for her last night in the city. I could run up there and find her.* But I knew that was a fool's thought, because no amount of running around can make up for a missed chance. So I let it go, thinking our story would end here, and went on, packing up the items of my stand, while lecturing myself on how I should have acted.

Chance encounters happen, but when one ends, you can either let your luck slip away and live with the sour taste of regret, or act in a way that says, *"I want you."*

The next day, as I opened the shop, I found a folded note on the floor that had been slipped under the door. I picked it up to read it: 

*"To the young aspiring actor who works here on Sundays..."*