Thursday, April 17, 2014
Tired feet cross the yellow line and move towards the small exit from the station. It is a cool night after a hot day. Red-coat runs towards the group from the opposite direction, half looking at the machine we’d emerged from and half looking inward with a restrained determination. We step aside. The ground beneath her feet changes from the cracked tarmac of the pavement to the dusty slabs of concrete that line the platform as a low whine creeps out from the guts of the machine, signalling her defeat. She presses her card to the reader in a desperate bid to register her presence, muscle memory taking over in a moment of alarm. Her warm black hair follows the motion of her head as she looks up and down the platform for something to halt the process she knows she cannot stop. A minute expression of concern and vulnerability and rapid thought detaches from within, surfaces, and retreats in an instant but I catch it and it sticks with me as I climb the stairs. Was that the last train? Between the metal struts of the bridge I see her staring up at the orange beacon suspended above her head in search for an answer. A distorted version of myself grows larger across the surface of a curved mirror and somewhere behind me the moment disappears into the night.