Change Carriages at the Next Stop

It was the 17:40 regional, the carriage a third full, and I had my usual spot: second car, left side, table seat, facing forward. I am particular about it; commuters are lizards, we thermoregulate by habit.

Somewhere past the freight terminal approach, a restlessness started in me that had no content. I checked my phone: nothing. Checked my bag: all there. The restlessness sharpened into something with a direction — backwards. It was the strangest sensation, like being very gently but insistently pulled by the sternum toward the rear of the train. By the time we braked for the terminal stop, it had words, or nearly: not this carriage.

I am English about embarrassment; moving seats mid-journey over a hunch felt borderline deranged. I gathered my things with the elaborate casualness of a man pretending he wants the toilet, walked one carriage back, and sat down feeling like a fool. The pull switched off. Off, like a thermostat satisfied.