The Train Station

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that my train is on time. The 3:15 to "Anytown" is delayed; the 3:34 to the "Land-of-Goodness-knows-where" has been cancelled. My train's announcement is preceded by a door-bell-gong. I get up. Stretch. Lift my valise, fingers curling and tightening against the hard plastic of the handle. I walk to the escalator that will take me to the platform. One woman hesitates before the revolving staircase. She is old. Beads of perspiration dot her tremulous upper lip as she tentatively puts her foot forward; her arms swing out and waver for balance. A sigh of relief; she is firmly on. Some walk down the escalator. Others don't. I step off and open the door to the platform-a quick glance over my shoulder tells me that the old woman is off safely. The sunlight is harsh after the dimness of the station. I cast a shadow that bends over the edge of the platform and spills, warped, over the rails. A lady, squinting against the sunlight, lights a cigarette. A few quick puffs later the ...

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