Today the subway train lurched and a woman standing at the door fell on top of three of us who were sitting adjacent to her on the bench. (Not pictured.) She rolled off onto the ground, where on her back she waved her arms like a turtle until someone helped her up and, uninjured, she walked off the train. I turned back to Edith Wharton, who was in the middle of describing some high drama involving a man who had made the mistake of helping a woman on a train (before inviting her to the theater), resulting in a problematic love affair. Sometimes life mimics art, in other words, but only up to a point.
The snow was quite beautiful, even though everyone was leery of the cold after last winter. More intriguingly, who is the strange ghost in this picture walking through the tree branch? (Edith, is that you?)
The buses were busy going places, as usual.
Our block was quiet.
Edith shook the snow from her hat and we went inside to warm our hands by the fire.
