A sunlit, sterile store displays several rows of small devices.
During the subway ride, she asks about each stop and what you could see in the local neighborhood. A proprietary feeling for the city comes over me. It doesn't matter if a subway station is grimy and rundown; I look on it with fondness, because it has become my grimy and rundown station.
The furniture from centuries ago looks doll-like, as if the people then were not only smaller but more delicate and fragile.
A high-speed boat skips like a stone across the river.
The baby wears a striped hat. She squirms from time to time in her sleep. Her sleep seems intent, energetic.
They dab, dance, and toss their hair on the videos they make with a lip-syncing app.
It's a quiet ward, which is surprising. The hospital room has a dim evening glow. For the moment, the baby is being weighed and measured in the nursery. A nurse, who strikes me as sincerely caring, quietly speaks to the mother, both about what to expect in the coming hours and about a maternal health issue that needs to be monitored.