An older couple walks before me, their fingers intertwined in fluffy gloves. They walk slowly. I can’t get by, but I’m in no rush. It’s snowing, making 9:10AM an acceptable arrival time.
I just miss the train. If I hadn’t been behind those geriatrics, I could have made it. But that’s okay, I live on the busiest subway line in the country, the next train will be here soon, right?
A sense of dread as I stare at the screen: nine minutes until the next train. During rush hour? Preposterous. In that moment, I despise old couples holding hands.
Writing in Transit is a recurring series of 100-word stories based on my experiences on the subway. Posted on Fridays, they’re exactly 100 words. I double checked.