We file out in khaki and denim, in summer cottons and linens. Battalions of commuters on the march, back from our first day after long weekends and festive 4ths. Back to the artificial chill of the D.C. cubicle. Back to the train and the bus, to waiting in the swelter.

Leaving Vienna yesterday, I spot a happy Metro employee. He’s wearing short sleeves, bounces when he walks. The trashcan he pushes has wheels and makes a sound on the tile floor not unlike a train clacking on its rails. He walks against a sea of commuters.

We are the tired ones, worn out from our office jobs, from moving the mouse, from having the meeting. He looks fit and happy and ready to go.

I hear his clickety-clack as I move out of the station, into the early evening, and my car. I want to compare our lives but I have no way to do so. He is moving one way, we are moving the other. That’s the story.