[FEBRUARY 2016.]
Train in three minutes, says the electric sign. I like the hills from the platform because their apparent curve is strong but completely askew from the slant of the roads climbing them; a van appearing from under the guardrail looks like it’s just driven into a picture book from the margin. Train in two minutes, says the sign.
Belly full of coffee, computer in the bag, one hand on the bike. This is what routine feels like: you don’t need to use both hands any more. Train in three minutes, says the sign. That’s a disturbance but not a large one, and provokes no curiosity on the platform. A puddle on the track reflects scraps of moving cloud in sepia tone. It’s a cheap effect, but when you look up at the wider span of gray its motion isn’t apparent in the same way.
Train in two minutes, says the sign. Train in three minutes. Frowns on the platform. The sign isn’t supposed to do this. If this keeps up, people like me will have to grab their bikes with both hands. I fucked up my taxes this year, having no experience in handling such sums; on the other hand, Turtle Diary in my bag seems to offer encouragement even amid the goat rodeo of a workday. I’m not going anywhere else, neither is anyone else on the platform. Routine is stronger than bad data. We’ll wait.
Train in two minutes. Train in three minutes.
