He gets on peak hour at Southern Cross, overweight and unbuttoned. It is impossible to appreciate. He talks into his cord about where he’s at, very loudly. Not to the carriage, though we will hear the running commentary all the way home. (Concentration on the logic of Marilynne Robinson is gone.) There’s what he will watch tonight: the Mexican Grand Prix, football in Virginia. There’s the matter of buying a unit. It must be three bedrooms, an apartment will do. Passengers (Metro calls us customers) alight, but he continues all the way to where? Diamond Creek? The end of November?