piece of a story called be both beautiful and camouflaged

I reach the steel staircase of the train station without realizing I’d left my spot on the bridge and I head up with renewed consciousness, step by step, my hand on the cold railing, my breath puffing out before me in plumes, and I insert my ticket, push through the turnstile, and meander out onto the near-empty platform. I stand, look at my watch, watch my breath, glance up and down the tracks for lights, glance at the scattered handful of people on my side standing bundled and at acceptable distances from one another and I wonder if the cold now pulls us apart when it once brought us together. An old woman sits huddled on a bench under the heat lamp on the opposite side of the tracks, and I hear the early dusk hum of the city and no voices.

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About mischa

I write things about stuff, and sometimes stuff about things. Depends on the day.