It's the ticking of the clock when you wake up alone at seven AM
It's the thought of getting used to something so right and then just throw it away
It's a major minor detail
On a misty morning L train
And the fear of having to go back
Walking slowly and carefully on the wet sidewalk, you sort of pull your overcoat a little closer to yourself, adjusting the strap of your leather side bag, feeling it for its precious contents, the large rectangular shape of the laptop sitting snugly in its case, the empty travel mug of stale coffee and a dog eared paperback. You begin to ascend the stairs up to the L train platform and as you walk, your gloved hands runs over the painted cast iron railing. Stems of your breath waft before you, rising slowly like dragon's smoke. Several other passengers already are waiting, some engrossed in newspapers or smart phones, others lost in a trance of some sort of techno trance or dubstep guessing from their choice of clothing. In the mist, you manage to pick out the El's bright yellow fog lights, cutting through the mist. It still has a ways to get here, but you know from experience, it's at Wabash. You sort of ready yourself for the train. You dont know why, but you just do.