She left that morning and ventured down to the market, around her feet moving and all parts of people moving. All the energy of the city seemed to be there, caught between the tarps, the drains leading the extra down through the city. She couldn’t think of any place in New York where all the energy was held together so tightly and comfortably.
When the taxi driver picked her up she sat quickly into the seat. It was torn on both sides, a piece of black masking tape sort of holding it together. She hadn’t noticed that the first time he picked her up.
“Thanks, ” she said, as if the conversation of yesterday had really been that long before. He sat looking directly ahead and seemed to be more attentive to the road, this time always holding the clutch .
“I thought about your story,” Alex chose the verb, glad not to know exactly what was its connotation.
Lights in the Hand 