The time between

On the last day of class, I am dropped off at the station in darkness. Though I board later than usual -- it is after seven -- beyond the lights of the platform, dawn has not yet broken.

Once on the train, I settle in my single seat and position my pack on my knee and against the metal post, so I can prop up my book.

When I get off at Commercial-Broadway, the sky shows that it is morning, but the weather is dingy and grey. I yawn as I descend the escalator and turn toward the bus stop. I am not yet fully alert, still inside my head, still thinking of the book I've been reading.

In order to leave the station, I have to run the gauntlet of arms pressing newspapers on me: Metro! 24 Hours! the reflective-vested hawkers call, in a variety of accents. Some step into my path and push the papers toward my chest, while others thrust them nearly into my face. I dodge them all.

Vancouver Sun? I've had a paid subscription for that one since long before the Internet obliged the publishers to make it available for free. I read it over breakfast an hour ago -- at least the headlines and comics. 

Sliding safely past the last newspaper waver, the one who tries daily to block my path, I wonder: Can't these people sense the meaning of the body language of others? With my head down and my hands in my pockets, do they really think that jumping into my path and waving papers will alter my decision to decline them:?

This is the time between home and work, the time when I am still not fully awake. But as I get geographically closer to my work place, the body gears up. I step into the line for the front door of the Number 99, idly glance into the window of the drug store and think how much larger are the stuffed toys of today compared to the ones we played with when I was a kid.

One 99 B Line has filled and departed. For the moment, there is no bus in sight, but I know it won't be longer than a couple of minutes. I gaze up into the grey sky, and directly above me, two black birds fly over. It's going to be a happy day.