The Japanese sumac in the yard of the house by the train station is tossing violently, as gusts of rain hit it with the force of a god’s eternal frustration. Across the tracks stands a plastic enclave that provides an illusion of shelter, its yellowed plastic walls holding back the force of the storm, while puddles in the parking lot turn into small, racing rivers.
A trio of women arrives, emerging from their umbrellas and dark rain coats. They circle together and chat about the normal topics: length of storm, effect on hair, efficacy of their clothing choices. The blonde, her hair carefully curled, her voice shrill, laughs nervously after every comment she makes.
We press closer and closer to the walls to avoid each other as more people arrive. At last the train comes, honking in an angry whine, hurling itself into the station like the force of the wind. Carefully we board, pulling down our umbrellas and hoods and making new stories with our damp bodies.