Grey
It’s a cold grey winter Monday. Inside the underground station it’s even colder and greyer than outside.
The metro arrives huffing and puffing and hissing. The grey mass piles in. I’m submerged in a sea of sombre suits.
A boor with a backpack bumps into my book. A woman tries to stifle a huge yawn and fails. Everybody looks away bored and unhappy. Where are they going? Where would they rather be?
Color
And then Esbjorn Svensson plays. We’re not in Kansas any more. Suddenly there are colors everywhere. Bright oranges and yellows and reds.
A big grin appears on my face. People look at me as if I’m weird. What do they see? I don’t care.
This is my stop. I dodge the dodoes to get out.
I’m going where I want to be.
