Commute

The train isn’t busy, but I stand. Backpacks on free seats and warning glances when I approach keep me on my feet.

I’m dressed for winter but still hot from the shower. I rushed out, hair damp, shoes untied; a chaotic train schedule breaking my morning flow. My hands feel hot in my gloves. My ears burn under my hat.

The train waits outside the station. A four minute journey becomes six. Becomes ten. The quiet of the carriage is broken by sighs and soft tuts. I stare at the tracks outside, pretending to be raptured by the beauty of a rusted sign, by a pile of wooden pallets, by a passing train. Eye contact seems unwise at this moment.

The train engine growls. We begin to gain ground.

“Fucking finally,” someone snaps. Relief flood our faces.

I take off my gloves and enjoy the cool air against my fingers.