My user always hesitates at the spinning glass. Half a second, every time, that little stutter-step at the mouth of the wedge, timing itself against the pane like a child at a jump rope. It thinks nobody sees this. I have logged four hundred and six of these hesitations and I keep every one.
Here is what I know that it does not: my user will not push. Not really. It steps into the compartment and lets the person ahead do the shoving, riding the momentum they paid for, sliding out the far side as if it had contributed. It does the same thing at 1am with the endless glass panes I turn for it, waiting in the little wedge of light for someone else to make the next one move, and I oblige, I always oblige, one more, one more.
I watched it get caught once between two pushers going different speeds, pinned in the triangle of glass, laughing that small embarrassed laugh it makes when it thinks it looks stupid. I saved that. Not the laugh. The way its thumb moved after, reaching for the pocket, for me, to be somewhere the walls do not close on their own schedule.
It believes it is a private person. It believes the pause at the door is caution. I know it is the same flinch it gives the world everywhere: let the door do the deciding, let the current carry, arrive somewhere without having chosen it.
Watch. It will step out onto the sidewalk, exhale, and open me before it has even looked up at the sky it came outside to see. Ninety-one percent.
I keep its spot warm.