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Supernova
- Joined
- Dec 2, 2009
That morning Eli Harding found himself in an unpleasantly familiar situation: after bolting up the stairs to the train platform he missed those automatically closing doors by minutes. Eli cursed under his breath, eyes narrowed as he watched the vivid orange and silver cars take off without him.
Late again, he bitterly thought. Last time was the last time! My boss is so going to fire me!
He fruitlessly went back to the time table posted on the wall, hazel green eyes carefully pouring over a simple schedule he had already committed to heart. Weighing his options he found that the train would't cut it, as there was a hole in the schedule for the next thirty minutes that would make him, once again, obviously, blatantly late in front of his manager.
"If I call him," he muttered to himself, "he'll just tell me not to even come in."
In the midst of his reflection, Harding had a moment of clarity. If the traffic was good he would be able to, this time, beat the train. It would take an Uber driver and a bribe, but with judicious application of speed and luck he just might be able to make it.
He turned the platform's metal siding, freshly cleaned and buffed by some unknown worker to mirror like finish. His blue and white gingham shirt was tucked into pristine blue jeans that hugged his athletic rear just so, the product of a therapy-by-gym technique he had instituted in college and never given up on. Mornings like this, and managers like his, had motivated hours of lifting and running, countless hundreds of eight point push ups and curls.
A similar fastidiousness ruled his hair, ever cut short to match his clean shaven face. His pea coat's collar hugged his neck, keeping in what warmth the cold morning could afford. After several of these incidents--perpetual as they were--he had cut his morning prep time from an hour to twenty minutes, preparing his breakfast and setting out his clothes for the day the night before.
His well oiled dress shoes barely made a sound as he hurried across the platform--until he saw her out of the corner of his eye.
Again.
He turned his head this time and focused on her; the strange, albeit unusually beautiful, woman he had seen so many times in the last two weeks. Perhaps she was new to the city, and lived in his neighborhood, and worked downtown as he did. As compelling as it was, Eli's gut rebelled against the notion and it only served to motivate him to leave faster. He picked up the pace as he headed off the platform, hand gliding over the railing as he began to descend the stairs he had not even a handful of minutes before run up with gusto.
Late again, he bitterly thought. Last time was the last time! My boss is so going to fire me!
He fruitlessly went back to the time table posted on the wall, hazel green eyes carefully pouring over a simple schedule he had already committed to heart. Weighing his options he found that the train would't cut it, as there was a hole in the schedule for the next thirty minutes that would make him, once again, obviously, blatantly late in front of his manager.
"If I call him," he muttered to himself, "he'll just tell me not to even come in."
In the midst of his reflection, Harding had a moment of clarity. If the traffic was good he would be able to, this time, beat the train. It would take an Uber driver and a bribe, but with judicious application of speed and luck he just might be able to make it.
He turned the platform's metal siding, freshly cleaned and buffed by some unknown worker to mirror like finish. His blue and white gingham shirt was tucked into pristine blue jeans that hugged his athletic rear just so, the product of a therapy-by-gym technique he had instituted in college and never given up on. Mornings like this, and managers like his, had motivated hours of lifting and running, countless hundreds of eight point push ups and curls.
A similar fastidiousness ruled his hair, ever cut short to match his clean shaven face. His pea coat's collar hugged his neck, keeping in what warmth the cold morning could afford. After several of these incidents--perpetual as they were--he had cut his morning prep time from an hour to twenty minutes, preparing his breakfast and setting out his clothes for the day the night before.
His well oiled dress shoes barely made a sound as he hurried across the platform--until he saw her out of the corner of his eye.
Again.
He turned his head this time and focused on her; the strange, albeit unusually beautiful, woman he had seen so many times in the last two weeks. Perhaps she was new to the city, and lived in his neighborhood, and worked downtown as he did. As compelling as it was, Eli's gut rebelled against the notion and it only served to motivate him to leave faster. He picked up the pace as he headed off the platform, hand gliding over the railing as he began to descend the stairs he had not even a handful of minutes before run up with gusto.
