Nightlight

 They say that time changes things, but you actually have to change them yourself

 - Andy Warhol

I am eyeing my watch again, moving the band away from my sticky skin to be sure I am correct. It’s 8:22 PM. The train down by the river will be departing at 8:43, whether or not we’re on board the cool air-conditioned car; regardless of whether we’re madly running in our sandals towards the shut of metallic doors. 8:23. I am shifting anxiously in my seat by the blue pool and summer dinner crowd. It’s at least a 20 minute drive to the station, and it’s time to leave, because if we don’t go now, it’ll be another hour until the next train pulls into the station, 60 minutes darker, and 3600 seconds later in the evening. We’ll have to transfer trains halfway through our southward journey - adjust to the darkness of the platform, and then readjust again to the sharp light of our new car. Grand Central will seem to loom over us - a young boy grown too tall for his pant legs - and the tourists and travellers will look misplaced and thin. I could feel thin.

She sees me glance downward again, unaware of what is motivating me to move, and equally aware that there is a train to catch, but also assuming that there is always one more to follow. 8:24. She finally volunteers to drive us to the river, and we hustle to scrape our belongings together in the humidity. He is rushing because I am rushing - a sign of support.

The Lincoln is cool, and the sweat on my neck slowly dissipates. If she makes that turn swiftly, I think, we will make the train on time. They make small talk in the front of the car, and I watch for traffic from the rear. Every yellow light becomes a threat, and a blessing as we sail through between the changing colors. As we pull up to the station, I glance down at my watch once more - 8:40. Young men and children mull around the platform; a woman in a straw hat rolls a suitcase. They are waiting. We are on time.

As I feel my body begin to loosen a bit, I remember that I will still have to ride the train, and that dusk is deepening. I will focus on the lights on the other side of the river, I think to myself, and stay near the window panel, right arm on my cheek. It could be worse, I continue thinking. It could be an hour later.

This entry was posted on Monday, July 17th, 2006 at 6:12 pm and is filed under Panic Disorder. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.