He despises ties. And high heel shoes. They don’t tap on, they only tap off their minds so they don’t have to tap in to each other’s worlds.
His face is wrinkled deep like the tracks themselves but they aren’t scars with a story, or tattoos of glory. They are the years, writing him notes, so that he can remember to not forget. Forget what? Route 78? Route 67? There’s not much to remember.
He forces the brakes and the suit and heels hover by the door, vibrating as much as the phones they carry, as the business that shakes them. He presses for the door and then sees it coming, in a flash, the BMW; he packs the doors shut and hangs the bell, ding, ding, ding, ding. High heels swears when her foot catches in the door and the suit glares after him in the mirror, shaking his head. He wipes his face with a cloth and taps tram in to gear.
Sweat slides along the wrinkles on his face, smudging the notes that had been left behind – forms new ones – so that he doesn’t forget.