![]() ![]() The woman unrolled a fork from a paper napkin, held it at her mouth, tapping the tines against her teeth. But so much of what the city was about had just been levelled-not just the towers but a sense of the city itself, the desire, the greed, the appetite, the unrelenting pursuit of the present. She touched the edge of the plate, brought it toward her.Īt any other time, it would have been just a piece of cake, a collision of cocoa and flour and eggs. The woman was elegant, fiftyish, beautiful. It arrived in front of her, and the waiter spun away. She had just ordered a piece of chocolate cake. The ash fell, as ash will.Įverything felt honed down to the necessary, except for one woman who sat alone at an outdoor table in a restaurant on Seventy-fourth Street. Third Avenue on the Upper East Side was a flutter of missing faces, the posters taped to the mailboxes, plastered on windows, flapping against the light poles: “Looking for Derek Sword” “Have You Seen This Person?” “Matt Heard: Worked for Morgan Stanley.” The streets were quieter than usual. The sky would always be this shade of blue. ![]()
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |