The 7:27

• Alana Zhang, Grade 12
• Short Story
• 2019

7:10am

The toaster trembled violently and sputtered a bit before coughing up two slightly underdone slices of Wonder White. Norman didn’t make many decisions in life, but three years ago, he’d decided how he liked his toast. On the other side of the countertop, the heavy metallic whirring of a juice blender smothered the morning with a sense of urgency. He’d been meaning to replace these for months now but hadn’t found the time. Like clockwork, he assembled the toast and drink with some unsalted butter, a co-worker had suggested it, and Norman had acclimated to the blandness very quickly.

7:19am

Norman tuned the car radio to 93.2, as he did every day at this time to catch the last four minutes of the classical music segment. He enjoyed not thinking, so he enjoyed classical music, enjoyed how it mingled into the affable amalgamation of car honks and rumbling engines. Rows of traffic stretched out in front of him like the dashes on an analogue clock; slow and unyielding. He checked the time.

7:24.

Shit.

7:25am

The rubbers of his soles pounded against the cracked cement, two minutes left. From the inside of his mouth, Norman tasted blood. Two minutes left. What would Mr B say? No, more importantly, what would he do to him? And how would Norman feel himself, missing out on what could be the most vital minutes of his day? He glanced at his sweat-saturated watch. One-minute left. He could hear the leaden stride of the train, tired but relentless like his own.

7:27am

Squeezing past a woman and her pram, Norman flung himself onto the last carriage, his suit doused in perspiration and trepidation and fear. But he made it on time.


7:10am

The toaster trembled violently and sputtered. And sputtered. And sputtered before wheezing out two, burnt skeletons and a deep, groaning sound.

He shook a fist at the toaster and took two more pieces of bread to try again.

7:27am

Norman knew that he’d miss his train. He knew it when Tchaikovsky’s Op.20 began playing before he’d reached the third turn, and from behind his dusty windscreen, he watched as the faraway train, his train move off like a little toy train with no consequences.

Never, in the last fifteen years, had he been late to work.

Norman began to run, but his arms weren’t in line with his legs and he felt them unclicking from his torso, now they were rolling down the ramp like prosthetic limbs or bowling balls, and Norman himself tumbled after them all the way to the bottom.

The world appeared a lot larger from the gum-stained platform floor. Norman at once noticed the bright red garbage can, how it overflew with skittles-packaging and beer bottles and breakfast wrappers still greasy from their morning’s contents.

He found a free spot on the bench next to the woman he’d pushed past yesterday, and with the fabrics of their sleeves barely touching, Norman sat in peaceful reconciliation with her.