January 1, 2009
Iím standing on the crowded #84 bus, on my way home from work. Itís raining outside, and everyone is soggy cold, trying to avoid thinking about the discomfort by reading or stuffing tiny blaring speakers into their ears. I look down and see that the man sitting closest to me is working on a crossword puzzle that heís found at the back of one of those free newspapers. I see that his pen has run out of ink. He is shaking it, scribbling violent invisible circles on the corner of the page, breathing on the nib, but it wonít write.