Casting My Die

Would I rather be the driver or the person who throws himself in front of the train at the opportune moment? Both are 100% correct, right? and both are warm, right??

Arriving early, I watch the morning and its lagging cold, keeping in mind that for the next sixteen hours, I’ll be indoors, insulated. After no deliberation, I choose a spot about four cars from the ticket booth, towards my destination.

Veterans await and acknowledge their rivals. From their collective, resolute gaze, the dice is cast with the same grace used to flush their toilets one hour past.

Sunrise Girl, with a nose inclined to the West and a blush to match, sways my way. As she approaches, I show my hand. I assure her where the horizon of my hat ends is exactly where the train will stop. She judges my eyes, my now-pocketed hands, then my eyes again. Then she stands next to me, placing myself in-between her and a twenty-four-foot fall. (It’s a triple-decker train.)

Sunrise turns her back to me. Remembering the laments of dead men, I take a step back and broaden my stance, just in case she attempts the dreaded Trust Fall. My mother and my old basketball coach would be so proud.

With my handy-watch trapped, time escapes via respiration. Today, the wind takes this air away from my destination, back towards the ticket booth. I decide this is a good thing, although I could see why the opposite may be true.

My last breath screeches, stopping the massive silver bullet to just graze my hat. I ignore the man hurdling with Olympic form from the opposite side of the platform, the driver, Sunrise’s nose, and head in.