Anyone who knows me knows that I love bound notebooks — little ones especially. Rooting around for some work-related notes this morning, I had a chance to rifle through a few scribblings, and ran into the following. Not sure when I wrote it though:

I step off the train in the middle of a hurrying throng. We turn the corner and arrange ourselves for the rush up steps. A young woman who no doubt has heard our train, her train arriving quickens her pace down the stairs. Against the grain.

But we make way — group intelligence working rather like an ant farm — and leave her a corridor to pass.

I root for her. I hope she makes it all the way to the impatient beast, though unlikely, so I give even more space for her to pass than is necessary. Our eyes meet then quickly forget that they have met. She pushes down the last few stairs knowing, as I do, that she has missed the train. The doors close. As she hits the platform a second later I see her head turn just enough to see me out of the corner of her eye. I will forever believe that she was looking for me perhaps to say, “thank you,” with a glance.

I rooted for her. And now, just as quickly, I thirst to rise to street level — for my lungs to clutch the sweet rain-tinged air.