We have yet to exit

            The white lights glare sickly off the tiles plastering the station wall. I can almost make out my reflection in them. The crooked squares angle me into two-by-two sections. I crane my neck and watch the left half of my face push into other tiles. Imagine my brain rippling through the grout and snapping back into cubes.
            Impatience wrinkles through the air again, and everyone sighs. I turn and press my neck against the cool ceramic. We can all almost hear the squeak of sharpies against it, feel the smear of someone's spit over the lines to seal their handiwork. But we stood long enough not to care. Enough to think, without really attending to our thoughts. The spit would have been rushed along too. Just make sure the marker sticks and find another blank space.
            Across the platform an ad proclaims WHAT IF SEEING EACH OTHER AGAIN CHANGED EVERYTHING? I want to stuff it in my purse to think about later. In different lighting.
            Impatience demands attention when it's finally outrun you. The muffled weight-shifts of backpacks crawls into my ears, the clack of hard-soled shoes. It is momentarily compact and clean. Surrounded and squared off, bodies push through bodies like open air.