The Train Troll
The city speeds underneath her at 100 kph. She sees them, but looks within. They used to have so much fun together. It was all flashing lights and colored beverages. Not so much anymore. Anke collects the fare from the peeps who didn’t make it to the ticket machine in time to have them punched for departure. Who has paid the toll more dearly?
The black messenger bag hugging her hip holds Flatusorb, the generation’s motivation for the one who wears practical shoes. The bottle rattles aside as she puts away the ticket machine and gets her cell phone. No missed calls. Ute used to call her on her lunch breaks just to say hi. She wants to jump off this train and run to her office, shake her, ask her why they had conformed to their prescribed roles? When was the last time they truly spoke? Conversation with content? The stop chimes announce a chance to escape.
She throws the bag out of the doors and watches it hit the platform.
moar!