The sky looked like Fifth Avenue in the morning, as if winter had polished it to a shine. The sky was the color of a dirty pearl, and the wind swirled between the buildings as if it knew exactly where my skin was exposed. It found a gap in my collar. It slid under the hem of my jacket. Tears welled in my eyes before I even reached the revolving doors of our office building.
I told myself I should have worn thicker socks. I promised myself I’d order a better coat as soon as I got my bonus. I repeated to myself lots of small, practical things—the kind you tell yourself all the time when you’re trying not to be tired.
Behind the glass doors, just to the right, where the marble wall met the concrete, a woman sat, her back pressed firmly against the stone. As if the building could share its stored warmth with her. As if leaning against something solid would protect her from being cut off by the cold.
She was wrapped in a thin sweater that looked like it had been through one too many washes. No coat. No gloves. Her hands were tucked under her armpits, but they were still trembling slightly—a barely audible shiver that made me flinch. The sidewalk around her was damp and gray, covered in sand, and people were moving around her like water around a stone. Quick, practiced detours without eye contact.
I’ve seen her before. Or maybe I’ve seen someone like her before. In a city like ours, these stories blur together if you let them.
I tightened my scarf, reached into my pocket, and continued walking, already preparing a polite expression for moments like these. A nod. A dollar. A brief, embarrassed smile.
My fingers brushed against lint. A receipt. A chewing gum wrapper.
Nothing.
“Do you have any spare change?” she asked.
