“It seems to me I spend my life in stations. Going, coming, standing, waiting” Dirk Bogarde
As soon as he got off the train and walked down the platform all he could think about was getting back on the train and finding his seat by the window. He continued to walk straight and deliberately with only occasional gentle pauses to allow a more meandering fellow passenger their required space. Soon he was up the stairs and out into the main station concourse and just as he left the last step he could hear the related whistles and door slams and the sound of the train begin to ease itself from the company of the platform and move out of the station and away into the long day.
As he left the station and went out into the morning, patiently letting people pass in front of him, politely ushering rushing people before him, all that he was really thinking about – he looked once back over his shoulder – was the train still at the platform.
The sun was breaking out before him, casting the passing people in that bright light only seen on crisp early autumn mornings. He saw faces but noticed no detail. They passed in droves, towards him and beyond him. Many rushing, some wandering, a few stopping suddenly. As he walked he paid close attention to each step. At each footfall he felt the pressure of his weight and the arch of his back in a synchronous movement not always comfortable. Occasionally, he looked down and noticed the unevenness of the pavement and how it broke apart in patches. His restlessness searched for patterns where no patterns existed, a behaviour that stretched all the way back as far as he could remember.
When he got to work and rode the lift to his floor all he could think of was going back to the station, walking down the platform and getting back on the train and finding that seat by a window.