Look at the greasy glow of the lights shining through the glass walls of the station. A woman is standing on the platform, glancing at her phone every thirty seconds. The neighborhood beneath her is strangely hushed, her mind as quiet as the velvety antlers of a young buck. Her pupils are the size of dimes, two black holes threatening to suck the entire borough into them. She sits on a plastic bench, wrapped in a fuzzy white coat, ersatz arctic fox, and white heels. Her razor sharp ankles would cut through the snow if there was any. Her purse is the size of a teabag. She tries to remember the last time she heard the cry of an owl. The noise of the city slowly rises. She lips her thin salamander orange lips. She drifts off and dreams of a potted palm sitting on the end of a diving board. She straddles the board, in her dress and white coat and white stockings and freshwater pearls, dragging her ass along until she makes ti to the end and wraps her arms around the trunk, clinging it to it for dear life. Carrington jerks awake to the sound of a warped recorded voice admonishing "Stand clear of the closing doors" but when she looks around there's no train, no one else on the platform. She looks at her phone again and the screen is covered with falling snow.