Two elderly wheelchair-bound ladies sit side by side in an elevator. One reaches over to the other, clasps her hand, and says, "Your hair is white." A pause, before the other replies, "I haven't been in the sun for so long." They lapse into silence.
Little girls in a ballet class, spinning, spinning, stumbling, one of them picking her nose as she twirls.
He wrinkles his nose at the pink frosting on the cupcakes. I tell him the color doesn't matter because once it's in his stomach it's going to look like the pizza he just ate.
Phone static swallows up most of what he's telling me. The only thing I can make out is his reference to I Love Lucy.
She's half-pixie, bangs her head on the table, smiles, clutches my hand, wants a co-conspirator in mischief and song.
Do any of them think of this as their safe place? It has a warren of bookshelves and desks, a lounge, a little room with computers, and no windows looking out onto the outside world.
A local train turns express, sweeping me off to a stop I didn't intend to go to.