Walsh

Walsh jumped on the train, his briefcase entering the carriage before he did and settled down opposite the woman in grey. For the past eight years, Walsh had been catching this very same 8:27 B line to work and for each day of these past eight years he had been late. “Do you have to pick up the Wall Street Journal? Why can’t you just download the app?”, his exasperated wife would ask as he set off on his daily dash. Walsh was a man of routine and once he had settled into one, he found it almost impossible to break it. He didn’t know how to explain to her that old habits die hard and moreover, the smell of ink and the ruffling sound of pages being turned could never be replaced by any app.

Walsh loved the T. He loved the bustle, the frenzied commuters, the dark tunnels and the silence. As a child, he used to find it strange that people on the T never spoke to each other, despite sitting so close for such long journeys. But as he grew older, he began understand why. His T rides were the only times in the day he got completely to himself, his moments of peace and quiet.

Walsh was one of those people who had lived the ‘textbook life’. Perfect grades in school, perfect grades in college, the perfect job. The perfect life?

Walsh saw life as a ladder that you keep moving up on; a rung wasn’t meant to be enjoyed. He had always wanted to settle down in life, but he hadn’t particularly wanted to start a family. And, by the time he had learnt the difference between the two, he was married with two kids. He had imagined spending his mid-thirties sipping wine…