THE LAST TRAIN
A Bite of 'Sliced Bread' - by Rosemary Phillips
It was evening rush hour in Toronto at the Yonge and Bloor Street
subway station. People ran in all directions, up and down, east
and west, north and south. They were rushing home after a hard day's
work. A sea of heads swarmed down the stairways like fruit on a
conveyor belt bobbing around corners, left and right. All colours
blurred into fuzzy browns.
A man stood alone. He leaned against the wall and watched, his eyes
twinkling in amusement. His hands were tucked inside his large overcoat
that hung loosely over his slender frame. He chuckled to himself
then pushed himself away from the wall with his elbows. He took
his hands out of his pockets and gestured emphatically as he laughed
and shouted with a voice that boomed out above the hustle and bustle
of busy feet, rustling coats and bags, "What are you all running
for? Are you afraid it's the last train?"