He stands at the edge of
the platform, back
against a pillar,
shoulders hunched. The
air smells of grease and
damp metal. He counts
the seconds between train
announcements—too slow,
too fast. His phone
buzzes; he doesn't
look. The tracks begin
to vibrate, a deep hum
rising through his shoes.
The train's headlights
cut through the darkness
like a warning. He grips
his briefcase tighter,
the handle slick with
sweat. Doors slide open
with a pneumatic sigh. A
wave of bodies pushes
out, past him, none
meeting his eyes. He
steps inside, finds a
spot near the door,
holds the rail. The
train jerks forward, and
he sways, catching a
glimpse of his own
reflection in the black
window—tired, hollow.
His stop comes too soon,
and he steps out into
the noise of the next
station, already thinking
of the next ride back.