The Last Door

The clock over the platform says 5:06 p.m. The 5:07 is in, its doors are open, and nobody gets on. A baker with flour to the elbows. Two nurses in different colors of scrubs. A woman with a cooler of ice packs. A man in a cap with the bill gone flat on one side, pulling goatheads out of his sock into his palm. All of them are looking up the block.

The conductor has gone forward to see about the first door. The last door is open and nobody is at it. One by one they turn from the block. Everyone looks at you.

Up the block a screen door bangs. Someone is running with a cup in their hand, coffee over their knuckles. The cup has a chip in the rim.

You step up to the last door and put your arm across it.

Thank you, they say, to your sleeve.

The doors close behind them. You keep your arm out a while after there is nothing to hold.