Parking permit
A dusty yellowed fan stands in the corner of the office. Overhead neon lamps cast a sickly light over the battered furniture and grubby carpet. I bend down to pick up a lucky penny as my name is called. Bagging the permit I leave for home.
Station
The winter sun barely penetrates the cloud cover. Although milder than in recent weeks waiting passengers are still wrapped in warm coats and scarves; not quite trusting the tender introduction of spring. Their chatter is interspersed with birdsong that tells a different story. A train stops and swallows the crowd. Quiet descends again on the little station.
A few latecomers arrive sleepy-eyed. Glances at the electronic announcement board paired with checks of watches. People slowly space out along the platform, stoically avoiding each other, as to stake their territory.
On the opposite platform my train arrives and I am accelerating towards my destination.
