Moving at Pace

It was quite busy, close to rush hour but not yet the height of insanity. The line up was growing behind him, cascading between two self serve kiosks, spreading out amongst the throngs of commuters ebbing and flowing up and down the escalators. He had his wallet in hand, his worn leather briefcase slung over his shoulder. His beige trench was well loved and of another era, but perfectly suited to his old world, professorial character. He ambled up to the kiosk, slowly, with purpose. The screen was placed at an odd height- he's a tall man, but not overly so at 6'2", a little stooped in his third age, but he wondered if the screens were designed for children or a much smaller society. It brought to mind Pygmies in the rainforest for some reason. Random. It was a touch screen, brand new technology to him but he surprised himself by adapting to it with relative ease. He pulled his debit card from his billfold, inserted it into the machine and leaned in, stoop shouldered and nose to the screen to read the instructions. He had to roll himself up to withdraw it and begin again. Then stoop once more, put his glasses on and refocus his gaze to follow the four levels of instructions. In between each step, he bent and craned, then rose and extended a delicate hand to the screen. Bend and crane, rise and extend. There was a protracted elegance of movement, not terribly efficient but necessary. The machine spit out his bus pass and he bent down one final time, this time a full foot lower, waiting for the receipt to appear in the bottom drawer. With the paper in hand, he unfurled and took two measured steps to his left before replacing his wallet in his breast pocket. He took one long last look at his receipt, bringing it up to touch his nose. Seemingly satisfied with it's information, he folded the paper into a small square and tucked it into his coat pocket.