I had to dig up notes from my journal for this:
The train station pulses with some mechanical heat, diluted sea air nips at our sweaty necks and disappears. My shoulder groans under the weight of my carry on. Beside me, a man studies the even off-white of the concrete, his ear pressed against his phone. Though whispering, his voices bounces before it drowns in the emergence of an oncoming train. We wait as the tires screech to a halt, some noise I've remarked sounds like souls being ripped apart and then train stops and gives like releasing the great sigh of its burden. A conductor or attendant emerges, sharply dressed in a black jacket, red blouse. She approaches but her eyes are dancing across the spill of her passengers, tired and quick. We stop her, hold out our tickets and it unfurls in her hand. She gives us a stiff smile and a glance, studies it, nods and asks us to follow her. She stamps over to the departure sign and her heels rebound from one side of the walkway to the other. Her hand reaches out and her finger trails, following the quick though still exhausted gaze of her eyes. She points, looks at us and mouths the word, "oveste," west, and hands our ticket back to us. We thank her and she offers us that same tense smile before disappearing in a clack of shoes and a blur of dark clothes and hair.
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