Fog Before Departure

At 6:47 in the morning, the station had not yet filled with people. A low fog drifted over the platform, and in it only the red of the signal light had ripened to tangerine. She sat on the bench, rubbing her palms, cold as a long-abandoned ping-pong ball. The sound of the train arriving was smaller than expected. Low, like stairs, the sound of wheels pressing the rails continued, and then the doors opened. Her face in the train window was unfamiliar. Half a shade darker than the face she'd known until yesterday. She set down her bag and looked past the next seat; outside the window a slanting farm road ran on, and a tall poplar above it was splitting the morning sun in two. She took a sip of coffee from her tumbler. The lukewarm temperature said it had come from the vending machine in the station only moments ago. She looked out the window again. The train, gathering speed, was erasing the scenery that had just been the station. Fog clung to the glass and turned to droplets, and the droplets chased one another, making paths. She didn't yet know where she was going. As the train picked up speed, the scenery outside slowly dulled, and watching that dulled scenery, she breathed out slowly for the first time in a long while.