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?
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