★★★ Flecks of lint on a dark sweater stood bright and individual in the the sun. The light was warm on one's face, and only there, in the tightening cold. In the subway, the middle of the rail bed was darker than usual, some unidentifiable part of the lighting system lost to the storm, apparently. Above ground, downtown, the gas station sign lay cracked on the ground. At the late-afternoon taxi shift change, the entrances, usually clogged with cabs, were empty and taped off. Already, again, the sun was going and gone. Without it, the unlined wool coat, fresh from the back of the closet, was suddenly inadequate.
Tuesday, November 6th, 2012
45 Polly Asks: New York Magazine Wants Me to Write Ask Polly For Them. Should I Tell Them to Piss Off?