three nineteen

When I close my eyes, I’m there again and I can feel it all.

“Wilson is next. Doors open on the left, at Wilson.”

The El began to slow down and grind to a stop. I stood and held the handrail, until I jerked forward, back again, and hurried out the sliding doors. Outside was cold. Chicago cold. I made my way down the steps and out of the El station.

Sometimes the Wilson stop creeped me out a little. Despite the recent attempts at gentrification, it was a poorly lit neighbourhood. I could hear the homeless man under the El tracks singing as usual before I even turned the corner. He always sang so cheerfully and I always wished I could be as cheerful as him in his situation and then I resented herself for envying his hard, lonely song.

I walked the street briskly, turning left on Malden, and down to the end of the street. I couldn’t wait to be out of the cold and pressed the buzzer for 319, waited for the buzz of the door and entered the checkerboard foyer. I would jog the first couple flights of stairs, and walk the last one slowly to catch my breath.

The door was always open.