Umbilical Chord

Claudio slid out of the shadowy Metro doorway and into the light. As if burnt by the pale yellow glow he twisted slightly and slid back. This nervous half step of a dance would go on for a while yet, until the guy came along. The right guy, maybe a little drunk, stale bar air clinging to his crumpled work suit (just a fucking uniform thought Claudio), phone clamped to his ear, yes, just getting on the Metro now, yes I’ll eat when I get in.

Usually, it was too easy. All over in seconds. Guys don’t shout or scream. In an instant the shock strikes them dumb. Some, in a rush of alcoholic outrage, take a few quick steps forward, as if attached to the laptop bag by an invisible umbilical chord. But, the chord breaks and the weight of their lives pulls them back, their expensive shoes rooted to the ground, unused to such action.

By then Claudio is gone, a faceless blur, a statistic, the proud owner of seventeen pages of spreadsheet containing variances in the price of manufacture of anti viral drugs throughout Europe and America – due in tomorrow.

Never, ever, look back, Claudio reminds himself. Not at school, not at the bagless guy, not at what you did last week. Put your head down and run. If you hit that brick wall you just go right through it and don’t stop till your front door slams shut behind you and the two year old on the sofa looks up and says “papa”.