The platform offered little comfort this morning. I glanced down the tracks of the Fairfield station, down to my watch. Should have been here 2 minutes ago.
In the distance I heard the Metro North scream. I let go of my breath and pulled my hat on. A few men shuffled their Wall Street Journals into their suitcases.
We stepped onto the first car. I settled. Noticed a few jarred faces in the mostly empty seats. Then: the sight of my breath startled me.
This is not warmer than outside.
A conductor shoved through the doors, "Oh nice and toasty back there, folks. No seats though."
A passenger barked, "What is this?! The Polar Express?!"
I slipped into crammed subway car fantasies. Briefly considered asking the woman across from me if she'd like to cuddle.
-45 minutes of stealing glances into the next car, silently reveling in the fact that I caught the express, no stops would slow me before Grand Central-
I pierced the silence, "I'm thinking of jumping ship."
Isolated pools of laughter accumulated. A man offered, "28 minutes. My toes? Are they still there?"
We slowed near the Bronx, "I'm doing it. I'm going to-"
"Me too!" A small woman popped up.
"I feel a bit guilty for leaving you behind," I exchanged glances with my fellow Arctic warriors.
A few nods slipped: we understand. Forge ahead.
(I later discovered it was eight degrees Fahrenheit this morning).
Image: USA Today