Closing Doors

The warning sound had already started when I reached the platform.

The doors were still open.

Not open in the generous sense. Open in the technical sense.

There was enough space for one bad decision.

I ran.

Once you start running toward a closing metro, the train becomes more important than it was five seconds earlier. Maybe the next one is only a few minutes away. That no longer matters. You have begun the run, and now missing the train would make the run look foolish.

So you run faster.

I reached the doors at the last moment and went through with more speed than dignity. Getting inside was only the first problem.

The second was stopping.

A few passengers stood near the door. None of them had agreed to participate in my arrival. I planted my feet, shifted my weight, and managed not to collide with anyone.

Victory.

Then I noticed the looks.

Public transport has a polite rule: strangers pretend not to watch one another. That rule becomes flexible when someone enters a train at full speed just before the doors close.

People looked, then looked away.

I tried to breathe normally.

The train moved.

I stood without holding the rail, which had once seemed like a useful metro skill. Compared with what had just happened, balancing on a moving train was easy.

The difficult part was acting as if nothing unusual had occurred.

I studied the route map with unnecessary seriousness. Across from me, someone briefly raised an eyebrow and returned to a phone.

A few stations later, I got off.

The train continued.

So did everyone else.

For several minutes, I had treated one particular metro as if the future depended on it.

The next train probably arrived soon after.