She walks off the bus, extending a curved, tortoise-shell hook like the torch of lady liberty. The sky is falling, each translucent piece stinging the pavement. One burns through the hood of her coat, rolling down along her bare neck as she struggles with the release. I watch from the other side of the window, a glass of water and a book in front of me. I’ve read the same sentence four times, each word evaporating in my mind as quickly as they fell. A lemon slice is split down the middle by the lip of my glass,  suspended above the rippled water in midair. I grab it and press it together until the juices run down my thumb, stinging an open cut. The pulp contaminates my water. The lady tugs at the yellow Gortex, pinching and squeezing, her carefully pinned hair heavier with each moment of exposure to the wet. She sighs, soured by the indifference of the autumn drear. Then, bursting open, it and she unjams. The damp bleeds away.  I stir the pulp around, the spoon clanking against the glass. I examine the rind in my hand, juiced, now nothing but a sunny arc.

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