I must sit down. My tired feet are pressing into my shoes, on the hard linoleum floor. Above me, the giant ceiling opens up. There is a clock suspended for all to see. The heavy iron arms move by themselves. Many tiny people in black coats are running to their trains. Each person is on a mysterious path.
My eyelids are heavy, and I hear footsteps, but I stay still. I am sitting on the oak benches in the great hall at Union Station. My back digs in and I sigh.
The trains are on time. There are men working on the tracks to make sure the switches got flipped, flashlights in the tunnel, caught along the grey cement water-stained walls. There are ticket sellers and bathroom attendants, and people at the McDonald's and the convenience store.
I wonder what it's like to work somewhere all day, when everyone coming through is going somewhere else.
