Rush Hour Life

When doors hiss open bodies unfold and expand like foam from the carriage, they pour around me, surge before me, spill out of tunnels in a tide of scuttling people, hurrying past on skinny insect legs, clipping the backs of heels, and spitting rage at each other. A new river streams onto the platform, the two currents colliding and tangling together, the new flock swarms onto the carriage, filling it with more than before and clothing is crushed and pressed together, limbs lose their owners, bags are shoved and torn asunder. The doors slide shut, severing the weak who blink weeping on the platform as they are left outside to contemplate the consequences of being late. Inside they stick to the glass like flies, a crush of perfectly tailored contortionists, victorious at the addition of three precious minutes to their blackberry driven lives. I'll get the next one, I think, I can wait that slow three minutes, it is a luxury I allow myself. I walk at a medium pace, in no rush, I know what time I should be there and left accordingly, scheduling a hobby of mine. I feel neither the pressure to keep up nor the pressure to slow down.