When the man beside me was called, he peeled himself off the vinyl. Two people reached for his chair.
“Please,” said the man with the bicycle helmet, withdrawing his hand.
“No, please,” said the woman in the red scarf, withdrawing hers.
They smiled. We had been waiting a long time for anything to happen.
“I've been sitting all morning,” he said.
“I sit for a living.”
“I'm actually more comfortable standing.”
She leaned against the wall. He put his helmet under his arm. They looked at the chair with the satisfaction of people who had already done something useful.
By the ticket machine, a woman in a grey work fleece had lowered her carrier bag to the floor. She held the machine's metal shelf with two fingers. Every few seconds she changed which knee was bent.
“There's a lady over there,” I said.
Both turned. I put my folder on the empty seat while they looked. It seemed sensible to preserve the opportunity.
“Would you like to sit down?” the scarf woman called.
The woman by the machine nodded.
The cyclist lifted the chair. My folder slid off. I caught it against my shin.
“I'll bring it to you.”
“Better here,” said the scarf woman. “Against the wall. Then nobody can knock her.”
She took the other side. Together they moved the chair six inches into the aisle, where it could serve neither purpose.
“Excuse me,” the woman in the fleece said.
A young man opposite tucked in his shoes. I tucked in mine. Farther down the row, someone tucked in shoes that were nowhere near her route. A thin corridor opened between our knees, ending at the two people holding the chair.
“You come through,” said the cyclist.
“Don't rush,” said the scarf woman.
The woman picked up her bag.
“Leave that,” I told her. “We'll watch it.”
She put it down again, hesitated, then bent to retrieve a small ticket from its outer pocket. The scarf woman made a concerned noise. The cyclist took a step forward with his end of the chair.
“Mind her hand,” somebody said.
“Which hand?”
Both stopped to check. The woman waited with her ticket between her lips while she zipped the pocket.
“They ought to have more seats,” I said.
Several people agreed.
The woman reached us and put her palm on the chair's back. The cyclist lowered his side; the scarf woman, surprised by the tilt, raised hers.
“Let go, please,” the woman said, taking the ticket out of her mouth.
They let go. She turned the chair until all four feet touched the floor, backed into it and sat. Her eyes closed. A small tremor continued in one trouser leg.
The cyclist collected her bag. The scarf woman moved it from the aisle to the wall.
“It's got my lunch in,” the seated woman said.
“Just here,” said the scarf woman.
“With me, please.”
She held out her hand until the bag came back. Then she unzipped it and took out half a sandwich wrapped in foil.
The scarf woman loosened her scarf. The cyclist examined the loose strap of his helmet. I balanced my folder on my knees, pleased that I had noticed her first.
“Forty-three,” called the receptionist.
The woman put the sandwich away and gripped the sides of the chair.
“I can tell them you need a minute,” I offered.
“I'm forty-eight.”
She laid the ticket flat on her bag. We all looked at it.
The receptionist called again. Under my folder, I found forty-three.