You push against foot traffic with the same fatalistic aggression you use to push against turning thirty. It’s hopeless, yet you try anyway. Commuters jostle for position like racehorses and for the same disheartening goal: to run in circles just to end up back here at the same time tomorrow, 24 hours older. You run your fingers through your too-thick frizzy hair, trying to tame it, to no avail.
“Jennifer! You should really do something about that hair!”
Without breaking your stride, you look over your shoulder for someone you know. But among the human throng by the green, graffiti-stained newsstand there is no one familiar, save the proprietor making rapid exchanges of magazines for money.