Cuentito

Out of time

I don’t have time. I am already late for the train. I have my coat folded over one forearm and my suitcase on my other hand. The keys disband; even locking my car becomes a problem. I run to the rail ticket machine, heels clacking on the pavement. There is a crowd at the entrance, tightened with suitcases and bags and even bicycles. I have to wait my turn to get in. I’m not the kind of person who pushes others.

As I take a few seconds to catch my breath, I slip out of the auto pilot that gets me to work every morning. There's a grey dog sitting on the damp sidewalk on the outside of the station.

It’s a medium sized dog, thin but not skinny; its hair looks healthy in its drizzled coat. If the rain did wash away its scent trail, and it can’t get back home, this doesn’t seem to bother it. As I watch it scratches itself, free from the behavioural claustrophobia I live in. It’s looking intently at a puddle. The slanted early autumn sunrays create a better-than-emerald gem out of a half submerged redwood leaf. The trousers and bags of the people walking on the street towards the station reflect on the puddle, creating a dynamic flurry of colour. The dog stamps its paw on it, making it splash and splinter. Then it resumes watching the movement conveyed by this rain mirror.

The fat man in front finally makes it through the funnel and waddles as a freed Willy on the other side. I get to the machine. If I miss this train, I will be very late to work. It would be hugely embarrassing and I could be fired. I have exactly one minute and thirty two seconds to buy my ticket and get to platform number 11.