Sylvie - or my Makeup Lesson on the Train
- thomasvonriedt
- Nov 26
- 1 min read
An individualist on a train—reluctant, alert, and armed with dry wit. On the Dijon–Lyon route, an ordinary trip unfolds into a pocket-sized panorama of society: a skirmish over a seat between Madame Dubois and Fatima, a carriage thick with hurry, perfume, and unspoken bias—and at the center, Sylvie, 25, applying her makeup with calm precision, as if tidying the world for a moment.
Our first-person narrator, a devoted driver and wary user of public transit, watches small gestures turn into stories: pride and courtesy, barbs and unexpected solidarity, a passing glance that says more than words. In the end remains a quiet amazement at how closely beauty and friction coexist—and a lingering thought that trains might be worth taking more often.
A graceful, keenly observed novella about nearness and distance, routines and rituals—and the subtle wonders that occur between two stops.
Get to know Sylvie here:
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