Platform 2

stiletto snaps sharp on concrete, ankle caves in with a wet twist of pain.

platform 2, breathless and running late for the 6.45 to London, the dawn cold slicing through the bones. her lips crack audibly in the frost, Marlboro smoke curling warm and bitter around a flushed face shadowed by a sheepskin hat, arms clutched tight against the chill, faded jeans stiff and wrinkled at the knees.

bare foot now slapping raw against the icy platform, skin pale and goose fleshed, broken heel still in her fist as she hobbles the last few yards.

and the 6.45 pulls out without her.

red taillights shrinking down the line, the guard’s whistle already gone, the warm lit carriages sliding away into the dark with all the seats she’ll never reach. she stands there, one shoe on, one bare foot burning on the ice, breath ragged, the whole frantic morning spent for nothing.

the next one’s in forty minutes.

broken heel in hand,
the red lights of the 6.45—
one bare foot on the ice.