Abigail taped her black pump against the worn, rouge floor and glanced at her blackberry again. The clock over the arch raced forward. And still it wasn't time yet. Her eyes flitted over the others.
Everyone handled this platform differently. The businessman negotiating an earlier departure with an obscene amount of money. The young wife with her arms full of Pier One, Macy's, and Williams-Sonoma bags. The sleeping thirteen year old. The eater. The iPOD blarer. The reader. They were scattered throughout the platform: on benches, in corners, near the edge glancing into the darkness.
They were the same. Resigned to and distracting themselves from the train's absence and hoping for its arrival.
Wind blew into the enclosed space and the sound of clanking tracks grew louder. Everyone leaned forward.
The shiny green engine and passenger car squeaked to a stop as one name flashed over the door. Sighs echoed around her. Abigail huffed. The iPOD kid's name was Jerry Fitzwilliam? He grabbed a worn messenger bag and ran to the doorway, pausing for the retinal identification.
When the train pulled away, the mood darkened on the platform. Actions took on a new fervor. A low-lying fog of despair crept in, and Abigail stared into the familiar face of her blackberry.
When would it be her turn?
And God says, "Those who look to Him are radiant, and their faces shall never be ashamed... those who seek the Lord lack no good thing." (Psalm 34:5,10b)
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