I do it. And you?

Everyone who presses the train door button, to get on or off, does the same thing, without exception. On the train, on the plane, not so much on the bus or the subway, we are all flustered. They might tell us, as for example, still in the carriage, that when we get off at Sant Vicenç de Calders, those of us going to Vila-seca will have to change trains, to platform 4, because there is construction. We can see this train from the carriage, yes, on platform 4, and know that there are many of us who will get off and take it, and therefore know that it will wait for us. But we arrive at the station and everyone, everyone in front of the door, shows the same behavior: a completely sterile impatience when pressing the button. We press it many seconds before it's time to do so. The train is still stopping. Most of us take trains every day, more than once. We know perfectly well that we have to wait a few seconds, until it has stopped. But we can't help it. We press the button. And our fellow travelers, those who haven't reached out to press the button, making a colossal effort of restraint, look at us worriedly, with a heavy heart, in case today is the day that, because of us, the train leaves with us inside.

It doesn't matter that the train ends its journey there, in Sant Vicenç, that town we always hear on the loudspeaker and which we invariably imagine as full of trains that have ended up there or completely empty because not a single one has arrived. We press it once, twice, three times, four times. And in the end, not because of our percussive force, but because the regulated time has passed, the door opens. Tomorrow, all of us will do the same, unable to help ourselves, with agitated hearts, with the fury and alertness of the permanently perplexed.