The train was late but she didn’t notice. She sat with her legs crossed on a cold concrete bench, her silence broken into measures by the scratch of turning pages. Clusters of others stood around, some smoking, all waiting. The dullness of the cityscape smudged their features, leaving only pale blank orbs. She looked up from time to time but did not see them. Battleship clouds collided in poor formations across the bruised sky. An icy breeze nudged straggler leaves off the platform and onto the tracks. Suddenly a piercing whistle sounded. Mutters rose up from the clumps around her. Devices were consulted. The train was not coming, an orb reported. Something had happened farther up the line. Details were scarce. With reluctance the clusters broke up and shuffled away. Soon she was alone. She closed the book and felt the cold creep through her skirt and wool tights. Leaving the platform, she descended the stairs to the street below. But there were no cabs. She felt light and the book in her hand felt like a stone. It was so quiet.
ii. the station
Posted by birds fly on July 10, 2012