The Long Way I Keep Choosing

The platform clock has read 2:14 every night for three weeks, the exact minute my train finally comes, no matter when I leave the register. I used to think it was tied to my own routine, closing up the same way every night. Tonight I tested it. I locked the gate four minutes early, jogged the whole way, and still watched the second hand land on the same spot it always does.

I tell my roommate the train ran late again. She stopped asking a while ago. The truth is nobody's holding the doors and nothing's stalling the line. I'm the one who wipes the counter twice, straightens the mints, checks the register drawer a second time after I've already checked it. I built the four minutes myself and I've been blaming a clock for it.

Standing here tonight, on time for once, I catch myself doing the math on how long I can make the walk to the platform take. There's a longer way, past the closed dry cleaner, that adds ninety seconds if I don't rush it.

I take the longer way. The clock still says 2:14 when I get there.

It was never late. I was never in a hurry to get anywhere it's waiting for me.